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.
Friday, 24 October 2008
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.
Monday, 5 November 2007
The Commute Part 2 (SS)
I am always fascinated at the amount of opportunity we have in our lives. We can choose to live so many different ways. "The Commute" is a short series I have written in order to provide a stark contrast in how we choose to live our lives by comparing something as simple as our commute to work; something we do not always see as being significant. If you haven’t already done so, I would therefore recommend you read “The Commute” posted earlier in conjunction with this posting (see July 2007 archive).
London, England
My steps fall into the rhythm of the music playing on my ipod as I begin my trek home. I pass the Tower of London, spectacularly lit, and walk onto the Tower Bridge. I had a long day and was looking forward to getting home as quickly as possible. However, halfway across the Tower Bridge, I was stopped. They were raising the draw bridge. Already, several dozen tourists were crammed up toward the middle, their cameras flashing as the draw bridge slowly raised.
I stood in awe watching as this ancient (by American standards) gorgeous Tower Bridge drew up to an almost vertical angle, the sheer impact of its undertaking, beauty, and history overwhelmed me. An old classic, wooden sailboat glided underneath the bridge. Once clear, the draw bridge slowly lowered into its original position.
Gates then opened and I resumed my earlier pace and continued my commute. Once home, I collapsed into bed, then rose the next day to do it all over.
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
I was wrong (M)
I was wrong.
While, yes, I can be slightly shall we say “overconfident” at times (I blame 4 years at Santa Barbara), I am always the first to admit when I am wrong and especially as of lately, to ask for help if needed.
I moved today to London.
I expected it be easy. I mean, I moved over 6000 miles from San Francisco to Zurich 2 years ago, how could a little move to London, a mere one hour and thirty minute flight, be so difficult? It was 100 times more so.
You know that feeling, when your broken heart physically aches, the air suddenly feels so thin you gasp for air and your body is suddenly removed from the physical place in which it stood. You are no longer a part of the environment but rather merely an invisible observer, watching the world pass by in a supernatural slow motion. You know that feeling, we have all been there.
As I sat on the plane, with watery eyes and an occasional teardrop which disobediently escaped making a run down my cheek, I suddenly realized, I was wrong. It is not the experiences, the trips around the world and exciting adventures that give us meaning or happiness; it is the people in them. Obvious, right? But wouldn’t it be nice to have both??
Ich wünsche, dass der Schmerz, die Traurigkeit zu verschwinden aufhalten würde. Aber mann fühlt Schmerz nur, wenn mann einen großen Verlust fühlt. Ich bin glücklich, etwas so wunderbar gehabt zu haben, solchen großen Schmerz jetzt zu haben, dass es gegangen ist. Dort immer wird ein Ort in meinem Herzen für Die Schweiz und jene sein zu dem ich bin geworden nah mit. Leben ist eine lustige Reise, und, wer wirklich weiß, was der Morgen bringt?
While, yes, I can be slightly shall we say “overconfident” at times (I blame 4 years at Santa Barbara), I am always the first to admit when I am wrong and especially as of lately, to ask for help if needed.
I moved today to London.
I expected it be easy. I mean, I moved over 6000 miles from San Francisco to Zurich 2 years ago, how could a little move to London, a mere one hour and thirty minute flight, be so difficult? It was 100 times more so.
You know that feeling, when your broken heart physically aches, the air suddenly feels so thin you gasp for air and your body is suddenly removed from the physical place in which it stood. You are no longer a part of the environment but rather merely an invisible observer, watching the world pass by in a supernatural slow motion. You know that feeling, we have all been there.
As I sat on the plane, with watery eyes and an occasional teardrop which disobediently escaped making a run down my cheek, I suddenly realized, I was wrong. It is not the experiences, the trips around the world and exciting adventures that give us meaning or happiness; it is the people in them. Obvious, right? But wouldn’t it be nice to have both??
Ich wünsche, dass der Schmerz, die Traurigkeit zu verschwinden aufhalten würde. Aber mann fühlt Schmerz nur, wenn mann einen großen Verlust fühlt. Ich bin glücklich, etwas so wunderbar gehabt zu haben, solchen großen Schmerz jetzt zu haben, dass es gegangen ist. Dort immer wird ein Ort in meinem Herzen für Die Schweiz und jene sein zu dem ich bin geworden nah mit. Leben ist eine lustige Reise, und, wer wirklich weiß, was der Morgen bringt?
Friday, 12 October 2007
Random Swiss Facts- Part 2 (F)
Please see my quick note at the top for Part 1 if you have not already.
1) “The right of Swiss women to vote and stand for federal elections only came in 1971, and women’s right to vote in Appenzell-Rhoden (one of the cantons) was only passed in April 1991.” – Insights Guide Switzerland
First, few women work in professional careers, hence the abundance of secretaries here, which also leads me to one of Switzerland’s greatest mysteries, “Just what exactly do secretaries here do???”
Although, before I continue, there are some very good ones out there, and in their defense, are not normally treated so well. But then again, unfair treatment is something you simply need to learn to accept, unless you are a married Swiss man (think US about 40 years ago).
Upon my first day of work commuting into the Basel office, I boarded the morning first class train from Zurich to Basel. Seat after seat was filled with tall, skinny white guy in black suit. Upon arriving at the office, I was then introduced to colleague after colleague, whose appearance held no distinction other than white guy, black suit, with a name such as “*&%$” “&*@#” and “#*^%”. To this day, I have trouble differentiating the people at the firm.
The attitude in the workforce here is the following:
“Why would we pay you and promote you if you are just going to have babies and quit? But don’t worry, we will take care of your husband for you.”
Actually, I digress, this isn’t the attitude, this is what is explicitly said. If we were in the States, I could probably have had half the firm fired for some of the things that were said to me as well as my colleagues. But I am no feminist, this not a political blog, and we are not in America (some Americans have trouble figuring this out), so I would prefer to not go into this subject. Instead, I moved to London (for many other reasons as well). I mean, I do have this thing for overweight, pale guys with bad teeth….
4) There is no single culture here. This fact leads me to one of Switzerland’s second greatest mysteries which is twofold, “How do people meet each other?” And “Where are all the single people??”
Although, as it is socially unacceptable to be single here ( I have been informed that all single girls are on a desperate hunt for a relationship and that many Swiss guys are too shy to even approach a girl), troubled relationships with a false pretense of perfection are common, and so is cheating. Again, please do not take offense to this as this is just a generalization. What you do find a lot of are people who have been together for many years, usually since school years that stay together because, well, who wants to be that loser single person (such as myself).
I get asked a lot by friends back at home about the guys and bar scene here, but to be completely honest, I have no answer, because there isn’t one (at least compared to American standards). However, upon my trips to the States I do become overwhelmed and admittedly a bit frightened at being attacked by the “Marina guy.”
What they do have here is lounges, lots of them. And the purpose of going to a bar is not to meet people, but to hang out with the people you came with. Strange concept, huh? Why would you want to hang out with just your friends?
But you will most certainly not find the big groups of girls out for a night on the town. Some groups of guys, but they consist mainly of a bunch of stuffy Swiss bankers, still dressed in suit and tie, whose look is normally complemented by the slightly slicked back hair and air of “I am utterly boring and dull, but hey, I have money so I am great”.
I would love to bring my Cali girls here for just one night on the town in Zurich. I am sure we would all be arrested.
1) “The right of Swiss women to vote and stand for federal elections only came in 1971, and women’s right to vote in Appenzell-Rhoden (one of the cantons) was only passed in April 1991.” – Insights Guide Switzerland
First, few women work in professional careers, hence the abundance of secretaries here, which also leads me to one of Switzerland’s greatest mysteries, “Just what exactly do secretaries here do???”
Although, before I continue, there are some very good ones out there, and in their defense, are not normally treated so well. But then again, unfair treatment is something you simply need to learn to accept, unless you are a married Swiss man (think US about 40 years ago).
Upon my first day of work commuting into the Basel office, I boarded the morning first class train from Zurich to Basel. Seat after seat was filled with tall, skinny white guy in black suit. Upon arriving at the office, I was then introduced to colleague after colleague, whose appearance held no distinction other than white guy, black suit, with a name such as “*&%$” “&*@#” and “#*^%”. To this day, I have trouble differentiating the people at the firm.
The attitude in the workforce here is the following:
“Why would we pay you and promote you if you are just going to have babies and quit? But don’t worry, we will take care of your husband for you.”
Actually, I digress, this isn’t the attitude, this is what is explicitly said. If we were in the States, I could probably have had half the firm fired for some of the things that were said to me as well as my colleagues. But I am no feminist, this not a political blog, and we are not in America (some Americans have trouble figuring this out), so I would prefer to not go into this subject. Instead, I moved to London (for many other reasons as well). I mean, I do have this thing for overweight, pale guys with bad teeth….
4) There is no single culture here. This fact leads me to one of Switzerland’s second greatest mysteries which is twofold, “How do people meet each other?” And “Where are all the single people??”
Although, as it is socially unacceptable to be single here ( I have been informed that all single girls are on a desperate hunt for a relationship and that many Swiss guys are too shy to even approach a girl), troubled relationships with a false pretense of perfection are common, and so is cheating. Again, please do not take offense to this as this is just a generalization. What you do find a lot of are people who have been together for many years, usually since school years that stay together because, well, who wants to be that loser single person (such as myself).
I get asked a lot by friends back at home about the guys and bar scene here, but to be completely honest, I have no answer, because there isn’t one (at least compared to American standards). However, upon my trips to the States I do become overwhelmed and admittedly a bit frightened at being attacked by the “Marina guy.”
What they do have here is lounges, lots of them. And the purpose of going to a bar is not to meet people, but to hang out with the people you came with. Strange concept, huh? Why would you want to hang out with just your friends?
But you will most certainly not find the big groups of girls out for a night on the town. Some groups of guys, but they consist mainly of a bunch of stuffy Swiss bankers, still dressed in suit and tie, whose look is normally complemented by the slightly slicked back hair and air of “I am utterly boring and dull, but hey, I have money so I am great”.
I would love to bring my Cali girls here for just one night on the town in Zurich. I am sure we would all be arrested.
Random Swiss Facts- Part 1 (F)
OK, before you read this, please refer to my Disclaimer of Liability at the top, it has come to my attention, that this posting was slightly misinterpreted by some Swiss colleagues.
I would like to emphasize that these are meant to be entertaining and do not necessarily reflect my opinion on Switzerland. I have a very positive impression of this country and am quite sad to depart. Any country, this size, which can achieve one of the highest standards of living and an economy which is recognized globally has my sincere respect.
But above all, I have made some very strong relationships which I know that regardless of time, will always remain true. Beneath the mounds of makeup and designer clothes of the Swiss (only in the Zurich region actually..it is like the LA of Switzerland) the substance behind a relationship once formed, is one of the strongest you will find, and I am lucky to have discovered that.
So, now that we have that whole touchy feeling thing clarified, let's move back into the more humorous portion of this posting.
I mean, if you cannot make fun of yourself, you are taking life way too seriously.
Every country has a story to tell or interesting fact to be learned. Here are just a few of those I believe to be worth mentioning.
But before, I begin; one clarification. No, I am not the only brunette here. You are thinking of Sweden. I live in Switzerland. They are two separate countries.
1) “The 16th century Genevese were the most decadent citizens of Switzerland. Their moral plateau was a city statute that levied a modest charge on men who kept more than one mistress at a time.”- Insights Guide Switzerland.
Hmmm…French influence definitely evident there. One wonders if this was a moral point, or simply an attempt to keep the playing field as equal as possible so that one man was not hoarding all the beautiful women.
My personal opinion is that the law was created by an unattractive man without any social graces. He was most likely the lone child at the high school dance hiding behind the bleachers watching in jealousy at the other girls and guys dancing, who upon summoning enough courage to ask the "hot girl" to dance, was laughed at and rejected. This man grew to become a powerful politician and then used his newly founded power for revenge.
This phenomenom of men using power to overcome shortcomings is prevalent throughout history including modern times in the U.S. as well. Haven't you noticed how all the men in Washington D.C. (political capital) are short??? Hmmm...small man complex there for sure. Think Napolean.
Either that, or the law was put forth by a business owner frustrated over the lack of productivity from his employees due to their very “long lunches” and charging hours for "working late."
2) If a Swiss guy tries to pick up a Swiss girl at a bar, within the first five minutes she will inevitably ask, “What do you do?” And “How much money do you make?”
First of all, I should quickly point out that this situation is not very common. Swiss guys don’t normally pick up on or even approach a girl at a bar. This question is therefore normally asked usually after the first non-date date (Swiss don’t believe in dating, they just “hang out together”).
However, in a culture in which the role of a woman is to simply stay at home and have babies and the man is the sole income provider, then her desired lifestyle is completely dependent on what he makes. So, why shouldn’t she ask this question?? I mean, wouldn’t you?
I would like to emphasize that these are meant to be entertaining and do not necessarily reflect my opinion on Switzerland. I have a very positive impression of this country and am quite sad to depart. Any country, this size, which can achieve one of the highest standards of living and an economy which is recognized globally has my sincere respect.
But above all, I have made some very strong relationships which I know that regardless of time, will always remain true. Beneath the mounds of makeup and designer clothes of the Swiss (only in the Zurich region actually..it is like the LA of Switzerland) the substance behind a relationship once formed, is one of the strongest you will find, and I am lucky to have discovered that.
So, now that we have that whole touchy feeling thing clarified, let's move back into the more humorous portion of this posting.
I mean, if you cannot make fun of yourself, you are taking life way too seriously.
Every country has a story to tell or interesting fact to be learned. Here are just a few of those I believe to be worth mentioning.
But before, I begin; one clarification. No, I am not the only brunette here. You are thinking of Sweden. I live in Switzerland. They are two separate countries.
1) “The 16th century Genevese were the most decadent citizens of Switzerland. Their moral plateau was a city statute that levied a modest charge on men who kept more than one mistress at a time.”- Insights Guide Switzerland.
Hmmm…French influence definitely evident there. One wonders if this was a moral point, or simply an attempt to keep the playing field as equal as possible so that one man was not hoarding all the beautiful women.
My personal opinion is that the law was created by an unattractive man without any social graces. He was most likely the lone child at the high school dance hiding behind the bleachers watching in jealousy at the other girls and guys dancing, who upon summoning enough courage to ask the "hot girl" to dance, was laughed at and rejected. This man grew to become a powerful politician and then used his newly founded power for revenge.
This phenomenom of men using power to overcome shortcomings is prevalent throughout history including modern times in the U.S. as well. Haven't you noticed how all the men in Washington D.C. (political capital) are short??? Hmmm...small man complex there for sure. Think Napolean.
Either that, or the law was put forth by a business owner frustrated over the lack of productivity from his employees due to their very “long lunches” and charging hours for "working late."
2) If a Swiss guy tries to pick up a Swiss girl at a bar, within the first five minutes she will inevitably ask, “What do you do?” And “How much money do you make?”
First of all, I should quickly point out that this situation is not very common. Swiss guys don’t normally pick up on or even approach a girl at a bar. This question is therefore normally asked usually after the first non-date date (Swiss don’t believe in dating, they just “hang out together”).
However, in a culture in which the role of a woman is to simply stay at home and have babies and the man is the sole income provider, then her desired lifestyle is completely dependent on what he makes. So, why shouldn’t she ask this question?? I mean, wouldn’t you?
Thursday, 11 October 2007
The Thread (M)
If you are merely hanging on by a thread for too long, it will break, and you will fall.
Your only chance of survival is to have a strong net below to catch you when you fall.
Given the lifestyle I have chosen to lead, I often find myself precariously hanging by that thread. The minute I set myself on some sturdy ground, I recklessly swing back out there in an almost sado-masochistic manner, and I admit, I have fallen, a lot.
Yet I am still miraculously standing, and even more miraculously is the impenetrable net I have amazingly constructed below. This net is comprised of family, friends, colleagues, and even strangers whom I have met or who have entered this whirlwind of my life and supported me along the way. Some consciously, others not, but regardless, I don’t think I could ever possibly thank the many people who have supported me along the way and for whom I am eternally grateful.
So this part below is super cheesy as it does sound a bit like I just won an Emmy or something, but at this point, successfully making it to London would be just as great an achievement for me. In California terms, we like to say that the following is a “Shout Out” to some (but certainly not all) the people who have helped me along the way.
These people include my high school friends who albeit the different directions we have chosen, still encourage me wherever my passion lies, my college friends who have seen me through it all, my Deloitte Divas, who are simply some of the most amazing people I have met and whose successes I am so proud of and who always open up their doors and make available their time when I am back in town, my SF roomies at the old 1788 Union Street who were like my little temp family, the Fluehgasse 7 boys, whom I would never have survived Zurich without and who have opened up their home several times during my homeless phases and could always make me feel better with a “Awww..Ri, Ri” and a big hug after a bad day as well as my neighbor in the crack house next door who offered up his lamp and allowed me to come over and use his couch and TV at 10:00pm so I didn’t have to stand over the sink in the dark to eat dinner alone as it took 2 months for the couch to get delivered. My close Swiss colleagues whom I will miss dearly, as well as those colleagues at the firm who went out of their way to welcome me into a sometimes uncomfortable environment.
I of course, will not forget the Malura family who opened up their home to a stranger while I was in Munich, my E&Y expat colleagues all over the world..whose unexpected sametime (instant messenger) popups always put a smile on my face when I was feeling down and for the good times at Oktoberfest…will see you same time same place next year!
Of course there are my abroad friends from Barcelona, the Altgasse Maedchen from Vienna, and most recently, my “chicas guapas roomies en Costa Rica” aka “old women of the group” whom I seem to meet up with all over the world.
Then there is my family, who regrettably live all over the country making it difficult to see them often, but when I am in town, it is like no time has passed in between.
Right now, I cannot thank enough however, everyone who has helped me on my transition to London, which has turned into a bit of a horrific ordeal, only further worsened as a lot of the blame was my fault due to mistakes I made processing the paperwork to get into the UK resulting in finding myself homeless, all of my belongings divided into several apartments (mainly Kevin and Dave’s cellar), and sleeping from floor to couch to futon to mattress on the floor (luxury-thanks Colm!), but worse, missing my friend’s wedding as I am literally stuck in Switzerland just waiting, unemployed for many weeks (which I have trouble enjoying).
To make it worse, the end is nowhere near as upon my arrival in London, I will have to start the whole process all over again. But I am extremely lucky, as I have a strong net of people who have even already offered their places and put up with me popping in and out already while interviewing and looking at some flats supporting me along the way.
But first, and foremost, it is my parents whom I most grateful for. As I am sure that while their preference would be to have me close nearby, they always still support and encourage me on my next adventure.
I often feel guilty having to rely so much as well as fall back on so frequently this net to catch me when I fall. While a net is there to support you, you still put pressure on it and disrupt it every time you do. And at the end of the day, the climb back up, you still need to make alone. And at this point, I am simply exhausted. Perhaps I need to find a stronger rope.
While it may not be possible to thank everyone as well as return the favor, the only way to truly say “Thank you” is to turn and catch the next person who is falling your way.
Your only chance of survival is to have a strong net below to catch you when you fall.
Given the lifestyle I have chosen to lead, I often find myself precariously hanging by that thread. The minute I set myself on some sturdy ground, I recklessly swing back out there in an almost sado-masochistic manner, and I admit, I have fallen, a lot.
Yet I am still miraculously standing, and even more miraculously is the impenetrable net I have amazingly constructed below. This net is comprised of family, friends, colleagues, and even strangers whom I have met or who have entered this whirlwind of my life and supported me along the way. Some consciously, others not, but regardless, I don’t think I could ever possibly thank the many people who have supported me along the way and for whom I am eternally grateful.
So this part below is super cheesy as it does sound a bit like I just won an Emmy or something, but at this point, successfully making it to London would be just as great an achievement for me. In California terms, we like to say that the following is a “Shout Out” to some (but certainly not all) the people who have helped me along the way.
These people include my high school friends who albeit the different directions we have chosen, still encourage me wherever my passion lies, my college friends who have seen me through it all, my Deloitte Divas, who are simply some of the most amazing people I have met and whose successes I am so proud of and who always open up their doors and make available their time when I am back in town, my SF roomies at the old 1788 Union Street who were like my little temp family, the Fluehgasse 7 boys, whom I would never have survived Zurich without and who have opened up their home several times during my homeless phases and could always make me feel better with a “Awww..Ri, Ri” and a big hug after a bad day as well as my neighbor in the crack house next door who offered up his lamp and allowed me to come over and use his couch and TV at 10:00pm so I didn’t have to stand over the sink in the dark to eat dinner alone as it took 2 months for the couch to get delivered. My close Swiss colleagues whom I will miss dearly, as well as those colleagues at the firm who went out of their way to welcome me into a sometimes uncomfortable environment.
I of course, will not forget the Malura family who opened up their home to a stranger while I was in Munich, my E&Y expat colleagues all over the world..whose unexpected sametime (instant messenger) popups always put a smile on my face when I was feeling down and for the good times at Oktoberfest…will see you same time same place next year!
Of course there are my abroad friends from Barcelona, the Altgasse Maedchen from Vienna, and most recently, my “chicas guapas roomies en Costa Rica” aka “old women of the group” whom I seem to meet up with all over the world.
Then there is my family, who regrettably live all over the country making it difficult to see them often, but when I am in town, it is like no time has passed in between.
Right now, I cannot thank enough however, everyone who has helped me on my transition to London, which has turned into a bit of a horrific ordeal, only further worsened as a lot of the blame was my fault due to mistakes I made processing the paperwork to get into the UK resulting in finding myself homeless, all of my belongings divided into several apartments (mainly Kevin and Dave’s cellar), and sleeping from floor to couch to futon to mattress on the floor (luxury-thanks Colm!), but worse, missing my friend’s wedding as I am literally stuck in Switzerland just waiting, unemployed for many weeks (which I have trouble enjoying).
To make it worse, the end is nowhere near as upon my arrival in London, I will have to start the whole process all over again. But I am extremely lucky, as I have a strong net of people who have even already offered their places and put up with me popping in and out already while interviewing and looking at some flats supporting me along the way.
But first, and foremost, it is my parents whom I most grateful for. As I am sure that while their preference would be to have me close nearby, they always still support and encourage me on my next adventure.
I often feel guilty having to rely so much as well as fall back on so frequently this net to catch me when I fall. While a net is there to support you, you still put pressure on it and disrupt it every time you do. And at the end of the day, the climb back up, you still need to make alone. And at this point, I am simply exhausted. Perhaps I need to find a stronger rope.
While it may not be possible to thank everyone as well as return the favor, the only way to truly say “Thank you” is to turn and catch the next person who is falling your way.
Sunday, 7 October 2007
Swiss German (F)
Originally written in February 2006
I decided that the reason so many people smoke here is because you need all that phlegm in your throat to make those guttural sounds. If you have never heard Swiss German, let’s just say that it makes German sound like a romantic language.
When I interviewed I made it clear that I did not want to work with a bunch of Ex-Pats. We have some large engagements where less than half of the team, if even that, are Swiss….and I got what I asked for.
It is definitely an interesting experience to sit in an audit room where everyone ONLY speaks Swiss German unless they are talking directly to you. I was working with some Swiss guys all week and finally at lunch on Friday one of them mentioned in English that he had just bought his first car. I of course commented how exciting that was, but then he gave me a funny look and was like “Uh, I have been talking about this all week.”
Silence, awkward pause.
Then he turns to me and says, “Oh, yeah, you do not understand.”
I have since mastered the technique of attempting to smile at the appropriate time or give a quick nod when you are in the midst of a group of Swiss German speakers. This has been perfected to such an extent that on more than one occasion I have been able to deceive a passerby or someone standing next to you who makes a quick comment..or so I think…
I decided that the reason so many people smoke here is because you need all that phlegm in your throat to make those guttural sounds. If you have never heard Swiss German, let’s just say that it makes German sound like a romantic language.
When I interviewed I made it clear that I did not want to work with a bunch of Ex-Pats. We have some large engagements where less than half of the team, if even that, are Swiss….and I got what I asked for.
It is definitely an interesting experience to sit in an audit room where everyone ONLY speaks Swiss German unless they are talking directly to you. I was working with some Swiss guys all week and finally at lunch on Friday one of them mentioned in English that he had just bought his first car. I of course commented how exciting that was, but then he gave me a funny look and was like “Uh, I have been talking about this all week.”
Silence, awkward pause.
Then he turns to me and says, “Oh, yeah, you do not understand.”
I have since mastered the technique of attempting to smile at the appropriate time or give a quick nod when you are in the midst of a group of Swiss German speakers. This has been perfected to such an extent that on more than one occasion I have been able to deceive a passerby or someone standing next to you who makes a quick comment..or so I think…
I am “THAT WEIRD FOREIGNER!” (F)
Written originally and sent out in March 2006
As many people know, Switzerland is famous for its Swiss Alps and the skiing! Just as we have Spring Break in the States, they have Ski Week for the kids in Switzerland. Skiing is such a huge part of their life that each industry group within our firm has our very own ski weekend. So when ours came up in the end of March, I was excited to go.
But as I learn time and time again, nothing is simple in a foreign country, especially when you don’t speak the language.
Now, at this point, I had only worked on one project since I had joined the firm and had actually never even met anyone in my industry group, which happens to be almost entirely Swiss (well, we are in Switzerland). So early Saturday morning, a bit nervous as I did not really know anyone who would be there, I jumped into a car with 2 Swiss colleagues of mine who had offered a ride, and off we went to Arosa.
The last time I went skiing I was about 10 years old, hence I own no ski clothes, which are extremely expensive here. Solution? My good friend Kevin lent me his. So once we arrived, I timidly changed into his clothes which were about five sizes too big, rented some skis, and off I went.
Humility and humbleness are two emotions here which I have quickly learned. While I enjoyed myself on the weekend..I cannot even begin to describe to you how awkward an entire weekend of being that “weird foreigner” truly is. Now, while the Swiss love skiing, they also love stopping off at the outdoor lodges and grabbing a drink even more (men that is..most Swiss girls merely sip on a beer pretending to drink). The weather was amazingly warm, you could sit out in a T-shirt and there was a huge group of us sitting out on the tables drinking and chatting, well they were…
But I found myself, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, sitting quietly amongst everyone not understanding a clue as to what they were saying. Sometimes someone would eventually turn to me and explain in English, and sometimes they talked to you in English one and one, but the minute another Swiss person entered the conversation, it inevitably reversed back to Swiss German and then I would stand there dumbly smiling, with the song lyrics “Should I stay or should I go now?” resonating in my head, knowing I looked ridiculous just standing there while they knew I did not know what they were talking about, but also with nowhere to go unless I wanted to go stand in a corner alone staring at the wall.
Sometimes it is a bit like feeling like a helpless child, with people jabbering away discussing plans in which you can contribute nothing to the conversation, but have to stand there and wait until the decision is final so that someone can hopefully remember to turn to you and say in English, “We are meeting for lunch at 1pm” or “We are going to the next club now.”
However, I have found a few Swiss friends in my group, one girl offered to ski with me, and after our warm-up run down a bunny hill, we went up one of the lifts only to realize in horror at the top that it was only Black Diamonds on the way down. I have to admit I was scared s***less, but was extremely proud of myself after making it down, that is, until one of my Swiss co-workers, who had brought his 4 year old daughter along, points to one of the Black Diamond runs and tells me how he took his daughter down it on the last run. Talk about a shot to the ego…
Saturday night was a lot of fun, after a big Swiss cheese fondue in one of the lodges, the firm arranged for a bunch of sleds to be brought to the restaurant. And when I say sled, I mean the old classic wooden runners which get going so fast your life is in the hands of nature as you have absolutely no control, and of course, these sleds are made even more dangerous given the amount of alcohol we had been consuming throughout the day and dinner. So, in order to make it to the clubs below, we had to sled down the mountain on a track similar to a bobsled track, a bit wider, but I swear, just as fast. Immediately, my competitive manager, who is determined to make it down first, grabs a sled, grabs me and off we go full speed. Of course, it is not long before we go crashing around a corner, flipping over, and flying down the track in front of the entire group. Hmmm…notice the trend??? I seem to have a strange habit of embarrassing myself…
As many people know, Switzerland is famous for its Swiss Alps and the skiing! Just as we have Spring Break in the States, they have Ski Week for the kids in Switzerland. Skiing is such a huge part of their life that each industry group within our firm has our very own ski weekend. So when ours came up in the end of March, I was excited to go.
But as I learn time and time again, nothing is simple in a foreign country, especially when you don’t speak the language.
Now, at this point, I had only worked on one project since I had joined the firm and had actually never even met anyone in my industry group, which happens to be almost entirely Swiss (well, we are in Switzerland). So early Saturday morning, a bit nervous as I did not really know anyone who would be there, I jumped into a car with 2 Swiss colleagues of mine who had offered a ride, and off we went to Arosa.
The last time I went skiing I was about 10 years old, hence I own no ski clothes, which are extremely expensive here. Solution? My good friend Kevin lent me his. So once we arrived, I timidly changed into his clothes which were about five sizes too big, rented some skis, and off I went.
Humility and humbleness are two emotions here which I have quickly learned. While I enjoyed myself on the weekend..I cannot even begin to describe to you how awkward an entire weekend of being that “weird foreigner” truly is. Now, while the Swiss love skiing, they also love stopping off at the outdoor lodges and grabbing a drink even more (men that is..most Swiss girls merely sip on a beer pretending to drink). The weather was amazingly warm, you could sit out in a T-shirt and there was a huge group of us sitting out on the tables drinking and chatting, well they were…
But I found myself, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, sitting quietly amongst everyone not understanding a clue as to what they were saying. Sometimes someone would eventually turn to me and explain in English, and sometimes they talked to you in English one and one, but the minute another Swiss person entered the conversation, it inevitably reversed back to Swiss German and then I would stand there dumbly smiling, with the song lyrics “Should I stay or should I go now?” resonating in my head, knowing I looked ridiculous just standing there while they knew I did not know what they were talking about, but also with nowhere to go unless I wanted to go stand in a corner alone staring at the wall.
Sometimes it is a bit like feeling like a helpless child, with people jabbering away discussing plans in which you can contribute nothing to the conversation, but have to stand there and wait until the decision is final so that someone can hopefully remember to turn to you and say in English, “We are meeting for lunch at 1pm” or “We are going to the next club now.”
However, I have found a few Swiss friends in my group, one girl offered to ski with me, and after our warm-up run down a bunny hill, we went up one of the lifts only to realize in horror at the top that it was only Black Diamonds on the way down. I have to admit I was scared s***less, but was extremely proud of myself after making it down, that is, until one of my Swiss co-workers, who had brought his 4 year old daughter along, points to one of the Black Diamond runs and tells me how he took his daughter down it on the last run. Talk about a shot to the ego…
Saturday night was a lot of fun, after a big Swiss cheese fondue in one of the lodges, the firm arranged for a bunch of sleds to be brought to the restaurant. And when I say sled, I mean the old classic wooden runners which get going so fast your life is in the hands of nature as you have absolutely no control, and of course, these sleds are made even more dangerous given the amount of alcohol we had been consuming throughout the day and dinner. So, in order to make it to the clubs below, we had to sled down the mountain on a track similar to a bobsled track, a bit wider, but I swear, just as fast. Immediately, my competitive manager, who is determined to make it down first, grabs a sled, grabs me and off we go full speed. Of course, it is not long before we go crashing around a corner, flipping over, and flying down the track in front of the entire group. Hmmm…notice the trend??? I seem to have a strange habit of embarrassing myself…
Thursday, 4 October 2007
Die Zeit ist gekommen (R)
English version below :-)
Liebe Kolleginnen und Kollegen,
Die Zeit ist gekommen. Ich werde bald nach London fliegen und verlasse EY mit sehr gemischten Gefühlen: Traurig, ein Kapitel von meinem Leben zu beenden, aber gleichzeitig aufgeregt wegen den Abenteuer, die nun auf mich zu kommen. Ich will mich ganz herzlich bedanken, dass mir die Gelegenheit geboten wurde, die letzten Jahre hier verbringen zu dürfen, und besonders dankbar bin ich, für die vielen Momente, die ich mit so vielen bemerkenswerten Leuten verbringen durfte. In der Zeit bei EY konnte ich persönlich und beruflich viel lernen. Die Erfahrungen, die ich hier machen durfte, und ganz besonders die Beziehungen, die ich knüpfen konnte, hatten einen positiven Einfluss auf mein Leben und ich werde es nie vergessen.
Und für meine Basler Kollegen, bitte vergesst nie: „I have a dream..“
Sollte Sie mal in London sein, lassen Sie es mich wissen und schreiben Sie mir ein Mail.
Alles Gute für die Zukunft und lassen Sie uns in Verbindung bleiben.
Dear colleagues,
The time has come. I am flying out to London soon and leaving with very mixed feelings. Sad to be ending one chapter of my life, but excited for the adventures yet to come. I just wanted to say how thankful I am to have had the opportunity to be here, and especially how grateful I am to have worked with so many remarkable people. I have grown a tremendous amount the last couple of years, both personally and professionally. While many of you may not know it, as it is not always explicitly expressed, the experiences I have had here, and more importantly, the relationships I have built, have made a positive impact on my life and will not be forgotten.
And for my Basel colleagues, always remember “I have a dream…”
Should you ever be in London, be sure to drop me a line! Best of luck in the future and keep in touch!
Liebe Kolleginnen und Kollegen,
Die Zeit ist gekommen. Ich werde bald nach London fliegen und verlasse EY mit sehr gemischten Gefühlen: Traurig, ein Kapitel von meinem Leben zu beenden, aber gleichzeitig aufgeregt wegen den Abenteuer, die nun auf mich zu kommen. Ich will mich ganz herzlich bedanken, dass mir die Gelegenheit geboten wurde, die letzten Jahre hier verbringen zu dürfen, und besonders dankbar bin ich, für die vielen Momente, die ich mit so vielen bemerkenswerten Leuten verbringen durfte. In der Zeit bei EY konnte ich persönlich und beruflich viel lernen. Die Erfahrungen, die ich hier machen durfte, und ganz besonders die Beziehungen, die ich knüpfen konnte, hatten einen positiven Einfluss auf mein Leben und ich werde es nie vergessen.
Und für meine Basler Kollegen, bitte vergesst nie: „I have a dream..“
Sollte Sie mal in London sein, lassen Sie es mich wissen und schreiben Sie mir ein Mail.
Alles Gute für die Zukunft und lassen Sie uns in Verbindung bleiben.
Dear colleagues,
The time has come. I am flying out to London soon and leaving with very mixed feelings. Sad to be ending one chapter of my life, but excited for the adventures yet to come. I just wanted to say how thankful I am to have had the opportunity to be here, and especially how grateful I am to have worked with so many remarkable people. I have grown a tremendous amount the last couple of years, both personally and professionally. While many of you may not know it, as it is not always explicitly expressed, the experiences I have had here, and more importantly, the relationships I have built, have made a positive impact on my life and will not be forgotten.
And for my Basel colleagues, always remember “I have a dream…”
Should you ever be in London, be sure to drop me a line! Best of luck in the future and keep in touch!
Friday, 14 September 2007
Countdown Part 2- "My Dream Life as a UPS Driver" (M)
When I was a student at Santa Barbara, I had a professor who taught one of the last pre-requisite classes to get into the Business Economics major. As a result, he was constantly inundated with students on the borderline in terms of minimum grade requirements begging to have their grade raised.
Frustrated at all the students pleading with him year after year with story after story, he decided to make a statement in front of our class of 250 students.
“I was coming home from a long day of work in which everything had gone wrong. I was pissed off, in a bad mood, stressed out after missing the latest deadline, and exhausted after all the long hours. To make matters worse, I am stuck in deadlock traffic and going nowhere. As I glance around, I notice a UPS driver pulled up alongside me. He has his music playing, singing along with a smile on his face. His upbeat mannerisms are a stark contract to the scowl imprinted on my face. His only worry is that a package may get delayed or damaged, whereas I have the lawyers, bankers, and company management pushing the weight of the world onto my shoulders.
The point is, not everyone is meant for the business world. If you cannot score high enough on these exams, than maybe this just is not the profession for you, maybe you should consider becoming a UPS driver. It is probably a better life you would lead.”
At the time, I remember being horrified about how cruel he was to the students who so desperately wanted to get into the major but were just so bluntly told they were not smart enough to get in.
Of course now I realize, that there really is no such thing as being smart or not (well, maybe not so black and white). We are simply better at some things and not so great at others…you should have heard the laughter of the kids in Costa Rica at my pathetic attempt to draw stick picture figures playing sports when teaching them English.
And now, I also finally understand what my professor meant. To be honest, the UPS driver probably does have a better life. But the irony is that if it is so much better, then why didn’t he become a UPS driver, or why don’t we all???
It is that thing inside of you that drives you, pushes you as hard as you can until you can go no more. Not everyone has it, and it is not always a good thing.
Sometimes I wish I were the UPS driver, or better yet, the type of girl who just goes out and finds herself a nice rich man to take care of her (nothing wrong with that ladies!), but I am not.
I am sitting on my bed, surrounded by clothes, boxes, bags, and just random junk. People are coming tomorrow to take all my bedroom furniture, bookshelves, and cabinets. I will be sleeping the next week on my couch until someone takes that too, and then it is the floor. I need to be out of my apartment September 28 and have a one-way ticket from Zürich to London on September 29. But delays in my visa may cause me to get stuck in Switzerland for some extra time homeless. It is impossible to know how quickly the process will go. I am once again reducing all of my possessions to a few suitcases trying so hard not to look back.
Living life so up in the air, not knowing what is going to happen, trying to get everything organized all on your own (which Switzerland makes about 1000x more difficult) is exhausting, frustrating, and well, just plain difficult. But this is all self-inflicted. I chose to live my life like this. And sometimes I wish and think to myself, why can’t I be that UPS driver? But at the end of the day, (Keith you would be so proud that statement), you have to accept who you are and go with it. I have, and here I go again…
Frustrated at all the students pleading with him year after year with story after story, he decided to make a statement in front of our class of 250 students.
“I was coming home from a long day of work in which everything had gone wrong. I was pissed off, in a bad mood, stressed out after missing the latest deadline, and exhausted after all the long hours. To make matters worse, I am stuck in deadlock traffic and going nowhere. As I glance around, I notice a UPS driver pulled up alongside me. He has his music playing, singing along with a smile on his face. His upbeat mannerisms are a stark contract to the scowl imprinted on my face. His only worry is that a package may get delayed or damaged, whereas I have the lawyers, bankers, and company management pushing the weight of the world onto my shoulders.
The point is, not everyone is meant for the business world. If you cannot score high enough on these exams, than maybe this just is not the profession for you, maybe you should consider becoming a UPS driver. It is probably a better life you would lead.”
At the time, I remember being horrified about how cruel he was to the students who so desperately wanted to get into the major but were just so bluntly told they were not smart enough to get in.
Of course now I realize, that there really is no such thing as being smart or not (well, maybe not so black and white). We are simply better at some things and not so great at others…you should have heard the laughter of the kids in Costa Rica at my pathetic attempt to draw stick picture figures playing sports when teaching them English.
And now, I also finally understand what my professor meant. To be honest, the UPS driver probably does have a better life. But the irony is that if it is so much better, then why didn’t he become a UPS driver, or why don’t we all???
It is that thing inside of you that drives you, pushes you as hard as you can until you can go no more. Not everyone has it, and it is not always a good thing.
Sometimes I wish I were the UPS driver, or better yet, the type of girl who just goes out and finds herself a nice rich man to take care of her (nothing wrong with that ladies!), but I am not.
I am sitting on my bed, surrounded by clothes, boxes, bags, and just random junk. People are coming tomorrow to take all my bedroom furniture, bookshelves, and cabinets. I will be sleeping the next week on my couch until someone takes that too, and then it is the floor. I need to be out of my apartment September 28 and have a one-way ticket from Zürich to London on September 29. But delays in my visa may cause me to get stuck in Switzerland for some extra time homeless. It is impossible to know how quickly the process will go. I am once again reducing all of my possessions to a few suitcases trying so hard not to look back.
Living life so up in the air, not knowing what is going to happen, trying to get everything organized all on your own (which Switzerland makes about 1000x more difficult) is exhausting, frustrating, and well, just plain difficult. But this is all self-inflicted. I chose to live my life like this. And sometimes I wish and think to myself, why can’t I be that UPS driver? But at the end of the day, (Keith you would be so proud that statement), you have to accept who you are and go with it. I have, and here I go again…
A Global Generation (SS)
I am typing out another email, trying to catch up from the backlog of emails which accumulated while I was in London for the weekend staying in the flat of a friend whom I had met while on holiday in Mexico last January but who I unfortunately missed this trip up as she was out of town in Chicago that weekend for a bachelorette party.
”Totally random, and I don’t know if you remember me as we have only met a couple of times a long time ago, but I am a Pi Phi UC Santa Barbara alumni and a friend of Kyle’s. I am currently living in Zürich, Switzerland but will be moving to London in a few weeks so was just up there for the weekend looking at some flats. Kyle (whom I had not seen for 5 years but hung out with in London) mentioned you were in Korea teaching English right now? I have a good friend from Texas whom I met while volunteering in Costa Rica thinking of going to Korea to teach English as well. Would you mind providing some advice?”
I then shoot a quick note to the guy on the plane I met on my trip to London last Friday who was ironically moving from London to Switzerland and me from Switzerland to London and so we were swapping advice, and then back to another friend, who lives in Pennsylvania, whom I met in Costa Rica who is looking for an internship in New York at a Big 4 Firm, then emailed a bunch of people in San Francisco and NY looking for contacts.
My Blackberry beeps, message from a friend in SF who was letting me know that a friend of hers was in London for the month working and maybe we should meet for a drink. I respond that I am back in Zürich, so I will miss the chance to meet her, but turns out she has another friend who is working in London for a few months but goes to Zürich a lot for work and copies her friend. She contacts me, and we schedule a dinner for next Wednesday in Zürich. Monday I have dinner with my Dad in Zürich as he is in town also for work for a couple of days. I then get an instant message from a former co-worker from our Amsterdam office who is now working in Michigan asking me if I will be making it to Oktoberfest in Münich this year. No, I have to move to London that weekend…so sad I cannot make it! I then get another instant message from a co-worker who just moved from Berlin to Moscow asking me the same Q. So sad I will be missing everyone! What awful timing.
And so the day goes on as like all my days,..and suddenly I look back at the flood of emails coming in from all over the world, I mean, we truly are the global generation.
”Totally random, and I don’t know if you remember me as we have only met a couple of times a long time ago, but I am a Pi Phi UC Santa Barbara alumni and a friend of Kyle’s. I am currently living in Zürich, Switzerland but will be moving to London in a few weeks so was just up there for the weekend looking at some flats. Kyle (whom I had not seen for 5 years but hung out with in London) mentioned you were in Korea teaching English right now? I have a good friend from Texas whom I met while volunteering in Costa Rica thinking of going to Korea to teach English as well. Would you mind providing some advice?”
I then shoot a quick note to the guy on the plane I met on my trip to London last Friday who was ironically moving from London to Switzerland and me from Switzerland to London and so we were swapping advice, and then back to another friend, who lives in Pennsylvania, whom I met in Costa Rica who is looking for an internship in New York at a Big 4 Firm, then emailed a bunch of people in San Francisco and NY looking for contacts.
My Blackberry beeps, message from a friend in SF who was letting me know that a friend of hers was in London for the month working and maybe we should meet for a drink. I respond that I am back in Zürich, so I will miss the chance to meet her, but turns out she has another friend who is working in London for a few months but goes to Zürich a lot for work and copies her friend. She contacts me, and we schedule a dinner for next Wednesday in Zürich. Monday I have dinner with my Dad in Zürich as he is in town also for work for a couple of days. I then get an instant message from a former co-worker from our Amsterdam office who is now working in Michigan asking me if I will be making it to Oktoberfest in Münich this year. No, I have to move to London that weekend…so sad I cannot make it! I then get another instant message from a co-worker who just moved from Berlin to Moscow asking me the same Q. So sad I will be missing everyone! What awful timing.
And so the day goes on as like all my days,..and suddenly I look back at the flood of emails coming in from all over the world, I mean, we truly are the global generation.
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
Defining Moments within my Swiss Experience (SS) Part 1- "The Fat American"
I have learned and grown a lot during my short 2 years in Switzerland. This has been one rollercoaster of an experience and the following capture a few of those defining moments in my life, whether comical, difficult, or just a lesson learned.
While I was hired out of the Zürich office, I spent most of my time working in the Basel office, which, albeit the long commute, I quite enjoyed as I really like the people and environment there. Upon my first day, the Syngenta team was excited to take me out to lunch. After declining an invitation to the recently opened Burger King (which I thought was a joke, but later found out the partner was serious), me, one of the partners, and 2 Senior Managers went out to lunch. During lunch one colleague turned to me and said,
“Huh, you are not quite what we expected.” – Swiss colleagues
“Really, how so?” -me
“Well, you are American…we expected you would be fat.”
Oh, and so the stereotype goes…sadly it is quite true.
While I was hired out of the Zürich office, I spent most of my time working in the Basel office, which, albeit the long commute, I quite enjoyed as I really like the people and environment there. Upon my first day, the Syngenta team was excited to take me out to lunch. After declining an invitation to the recently opened Burger King (which I thought was a joke, but later found out the partner was serious), me, one of the partners, and 2 Senior Managers went out to lunch. During lunch one colleague turned to me and said,
“Huh, you are not quite what we expected.” – Swiss colleagues
“Really, how so?” -me
“Well, you are American…we expected you would be fat.”
Oh, and so the stereotype goes…sadly it is quite true.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
The World Is My Playground (R)
I have come to the conclusion that the world is like one big playground for adults..I mean, we never really do grow up do we? We get jobs, like me who dresses up in a black suit smartly complemented with a grim face as if it were a Halloween costume and goes off to work to spend my day typing madly in front of a laptop in a stuffy room.
Long gone are the glorious days of a school bell to indicate the end of the day..we end the day when you simply can go on no more. So why do we do it?
Because like recess was play time when you were a kid and you stared longingly at the clock waiting for the next one, vacation is an adult’s recess. But this time, instead of running for the balls to start up a competitive game of 4 square, I pack up my bags to go off on my next adventure.
However, when swinging through the world, sometimes you are pushed so hard, you fall off and get scraped up and bruised. But you just get back up, and know that this time, you need to hold tighter. After all, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.
Long gone are the glorious days of a school bell to indicate the end of the day..we end the day when you simply can go on no more. So why do we do it?
Because like recess was play time when you were a kid and you stared longingly at the clock waiting for the next one, vacation is an adult’s recess. But this time, instead of running for the balls to start up a competitive game of 4 square, I pack up my bags to go off on my next adventure.
However, when swinging through the world, sometimes you are pushed so hard, you fall off and get scraped up and bruised. But you just get back up, and know that this time, you need to hold tighter. After all, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.
Thursday, 30 August 2007
Swiss Miss
The following will be all those little things I will miss about Switzerland…this will continue to grow as things pop into my head..that song “A few of my favorite things” is now annoyingly stuck in my head as I write this…
“Birchermuesli”
Pronounced (Beer-chka(hock a luggi)-mew-slee)—go it? While I am not such a fan of the Gipfeli (croissants) that all Swiss eat every morning for breakfast, well I am simply not such a fan of the food here in general, but I have grown very fond of birchermuesli which, every place makes a bit different, but usually consists mainly of yogurt, fresh fruit, and wheat flakes (description does not do it justice). While interviewing in London, I popped into one of those Take Away (To Go (American translation)) places to grab lunch. I was so excited when in a little container next to the yogurts, was labeled “Swiss Birchermuesli”!
Aside from Mexican food, which all Americans living abroad desperately crave, my other vice was Diet Coke..and yes, they do have Cola Light here, but it is not the same! If you disagree with me, then you are not a true Diet Coke addict. Moving to London, my one food craving will undoubtedly be birchermuesli, and so upon seeing this at the little shop, I knew London was meant to be. Needless to say I purchased the birchermuesli, opened up the container and took a bit. I was shocked to find that the British version of “Swiss birchermuesli” was oatmeal mixed with yogurt topped with a single blackberry. If this is an indication of the British food to come…rough times are ahead.
“Gruezi”- (Grietsy)
Swiss German for hello, which you must ALWAYS say when passing someone. Now, I don’t mean as you are dashing through the main train station passing like a hundred people along the way. I mean, come one, that would be a bit deafening don’t you think? But it is common to look at someone, smile, and utter a quick “Gruezi” as you walk by. Much better than the normal quick glance to the ground, cold stare ahead, and ignore the passerby we are so accustomed to.
“Zum Wohl”
Many of you who have seen me recently know this one well as I get completely offended when after pouring an alcoholic drink someone simply grabs it and starts chugging. I mean, we aren’t still in college are we? Although it does feel like yesterday, I mean, how the hell did we end up here?? Anyway, I digress. So, in Switzerland, prior to even taking a sip, everyone needs to raise their glass, utter a “Zum Wohl” or “Prost” and then look at every person in the eyes.
Think that is annoying and too time consuming? Sell if you don’t, it is seven years bad sex. So if your sex life isn’t going so well…now you know why! “Zum Wohl!”
“Birchermuesli”
Pronounced (Beer-chka(hock a luggi)-mew-slee)—go it? While I am not such a fan of the Gipfeli (croissants) that all Swiss eat every morning for breakfast, well I am simply not such a fan of the food here in general, but I have grown very fond of birchermuesli which, every place makes a bit different, but usually consists mainly of yogurt, fresh fruit, and wheat flakes (description does not do it justice). While interviewing in London, I popped into one of those Take Away (To Go (American translation)) places to grab lunch. I was so excited when in a little container next to the yogurts, was labeled “Swiss Birchermuesli”!
Aside from Mexican food, which all Americans living abroad desperately crave, my other vice was Diet Coke..and yes, they do have Cola Light here, but it is not the same! If you disagree with me, then you are not a true Diet Coke addict. Moving to London, my one food craving will undoubtedly be birchermuesli, and so upon seeing this at the little shop, I knew London was meant to be. Needless to say I purchased the birchermuesli, opened up the container and took a bit. I was shocked to find that the British version of “Swiss birchermuesli” was oatmeal mixed with yogurt topped with a single blackberry. If this is an indication of the British food to come…rough times are ahead.
“Gruezi”- (Grietsy)
Swiss German for hello, which you must ALWAYS say when passing someone. Now, I don’t mean as you are dashing through the main train station passing like a hundred people along the way. I mean, come one, that would be a bit deafening don’t you think? But it is common to look at someone, smile, and utter a quick “Gruezi” as you walk by. Much better than the normal quick glance to the ground, cold stare ahead, and ignore the passerby we are so accustomed to.
“Zum Wohl”
Many of you who have seen me recently know this one well as I get completely offended when after pouring an alcoholic drink someone simply grabs it and starts chugging. I mean, we aren’t still in college are we? Although it does feel like yesterday, I mean, how the hell did we end up here?? Anyway, I digress. So, in Switzerland, prior to even taking a sip, everyone needs to raise their glass, utter a “Zum Wohl” or “Prost” and then look at every person in the eyes.
Think that is annoying and too time consuming? Sell if you don’t, it is seven years bad sex. So if your sex life isn’t going so well…now you know why! “Zum Wohl!”
Countdown is On
Closing One Chapter and Beginning the Next
I have one month left in Zürich, my home for the last 2 years. This section will be devoted to my postings which will be a random and eclectic bunch..but hey, that is how I am. So here goes…
I have one month left in Zürich, my home for the last 2 years. This section will be devoted to my postings which will be a random and eclectic bunch..but hey, that is how I am. So here goes…
Wednesday, 29 August 2007
Countdown- Part 1 - “Never look back”
Watching people take everything you own and having to get rid of almost all possessions, many full of memories, is painful, but knowing the purpose behind it and the adventures to come make it worthwhile. I had to go through it once and now I must do it once more. It is difficult to think about the horrific ordeal I went through getting my apartment and having to start from scratch and furnish it. Memories of standing in the dark over my sink eating dinner because I had no lights or anywhere to sit, the dreaded trips to the furniture stores, and trying then to figure how to put the stuff together (or in my case waiting until some unlucky person offered their help) are still vivid. I will miss my little Wohnung am Nebelbachstrasse 10, my brown leather IKEA couch that every expat (foreigners working overseas) owns, and the barren white walls which I was too lazy to ever get the frames I bought up on the walls.
The irony of the fact that most of my friends and family are getting married, engaged, buying homes, and establishing roots is not forgotten. Eventually, I keep telling myself, but not yet.
The irony of the fact that most of my friends and family are getting married, engaged, buying homes, and establishing roots is not forgotten. Eventually, I keep telling myself, but not yet.
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
Squeals of a Spectacular Sunset (M)
We were like a couple of pigs, gulping down our beers, squealing with delight everytime we rounded another corner and got another spectacular view of the sunset from yet another angle, climbing over the top of each other to get closest to the window for an attempted camera shot, and repeatedly snorting in anger as a tree, large pothole or sudden turn ruined each attempt to capture the moment. But no picture would have ever been able to capture the spectacularly fire colored sky set against the rolling green Costa Rican mountains enjoyed with good friends, a couple of beers, and a very rocky 5 hour van- boat-van ride from Ciudad Quesada to Monteverde. It was one of those indescribable moments in time.
The Commute (SS)
Zurich, Switzerland
It is 6:50 am as I hurriedly walk down the platform to the first class car and board the train. I quickly find an available seat, and, as is my normal procedure, place my black gym bag overhead, hang up my black suit jacket, take out my laptop from my black laptop bag and place my Blackberry next to the laptop; but only after a quick check to ensure I had not received any new messages since I last checked 5 minutes ago. I then set it close by so that the blinking light notifying me of any new messages can be seen out of the corner of my eye. By 7:02, the train is full, mainly with white men who all look the same to me; serious faces, black suits, and coffee and gipfeli (croissant) in hand. “Naechste Halt, Basel.” The train pulls out of the station but I barely notice as I am already typing away.
Ciudad Quesada, Costa Rica
It is 7; 30 am and already sunny and humid outside. “Let’s Go!” the CrossCulturalSolutions staff shout. I am standing in line with the other volunteers waiting to fill up my water bottle with our specially filtered water one last time before we head out. Once full, I swing my backpack over my shoulder and run out the door, through the gate of our barred off home base and onto the bus. In my backpack I bring only water, pen, paper, and my Spanish book which the kids love to go through since they have no textbooks at their school. I am wearing my usual work clothes of khaki capris, T-shirt, and Teva sandals and stare out the window as we drive (well, more like bounce) to my school. As I am one of the last stops, we drive through the hills, passing the many shacks, “Soda” shops, and little houses enclosed in the same prison bars as our own, dropping off the other volunteers along the way. Pulling up to my school I jump out, the kids come running shouting "Gringa Gringa!" I am overwhelmed by kisses on the cheek and then am dragged into the next game of jump rope before class begins.
Sunday, 29 July 2007
Costa Rican Lessons Learned - Part 1 (F)
“My mother slept with a Costa Rican milkman.”
Or so I am told. Our Costa Rican staff informed me that my identical twin long lost Costa Rican sister works out at the gym that they go to and they all thing I look exactly like this Costa Rican girl. One of the girls joked that the locals must get really confused when I am in town and I suddenly start speaking in English. Who would of thought the Irish and Costa Ricans looked so similar?
“Lessons on getting a hot shower.”
If you have this one figured out, please let me know!
"Tico Space"
I have come to realize that the reason we are not provided with hot water is to limit how many showers we are capable of suffering through in order to lessen our exposure to the culture shock of "Tico Space."
“Tico” is what a Costa Rican refer himself as, “Tico Space” is really an oxymoron as a Tico will not actually provide any space between you and them regardless of the size of the room.
“Random Fun Facts learned in my nature walks perfect for Cocktail Parties”
- Preying mantis females rotate their heads 180 degrees and bite off the head of the male mating with them, who then actually speed up the pace for a good 20 seconds or so before finishing up. She then eats him for the nutrients for her babies.
- Tarantula females also kill and eat the males after mating.
- Walking stick insects mate for 79 days, impressive. The females don’t kill these males. Men, feeling some pressure?
Or so I am told. Our Costa Rican staff informed me that my identical twin long lost Costa Rican sister works out at the gym that they go to and they all thing I look exactly like this Costa Rican girl. One of the girls joked that the locals must get really confused when I am in town and I suddenly start speaking in English. Who would of thought the Irish and Costa Ricans looked so similar?
“Lessons on getting a hot shower.”
If you have this one figured out, please let me know!
"Tico Space"
I have come to realize that the reason we are not provided with hot water is to limit how many showers we are capable of suffering through in order to lessen our exposure to the culture shock of "Tico Space."
“Tico” is what a Costa Rican refer himself as, “Tico Space” is really an oxymoron as a Tico will not actually provide any space between you and them regardless of the size of the room.
“Random Fun Facts learned in my nature walks perfect for Cocktail Parties”
- Preying mantis females rotate their heads 180 degrees and bite off the head of the male mating with them, who then actually speed up the pace for a good 20 seconds or so before finishing up. She then eats him for the nutrients for her babies.
- Tarantula females also kill and eat the males after mating.
- Walking stick insects mate for 79 days, impressive. The females don’t kill these males. Men, feeling some pressure?
Swinging like a monkey (SS)
After zipping from treetop to treetop in the rainforest of Costa Rica for an hour and a half, adrenaline pumping, we come upon our “sorpresa,” the Tarzan swing. Rather than zip across, you drop straight down before swinging out in true Tarzan, or in my case Jane, form. Climbing up onto the ledge, one guide holds onto your harness, tells you to bend your knees, and then gives you a nice, encouraging push to your death.
After watching a few go down, it is my turn. Hooked in, the guide tells me, as with the others, to bend my knees, which to me is an indication that he is ready for me to drop. Instinctively and almost to avoid the inevitable push, I step off the platform before I am supposed to go.
“No, no!” He screams, and braces himself against the railing holding me up by the back of my harness as I am helplessly dangling off the platform high above the ground. In shock, I spend a good five seconds suspended in air, arms flailing, legs wild kicking, and me screaming in true monkey fashion before finally being released.
Well, my Costa Rican chicas, I know how much you desperately wanted to see a wild monkey in the Costa Rican rainforests. Looks like you got what you asked for.
After watching a few go down, it is my turn. Hooked in, the guide tells me, as with the others, to bend my knees, which to me is an indication that he is ready for me to drop. Instinctively and almost to avoid the inevitable push, I step off the platform before I am supposed to go.
“No, no!” He screams, and braces himself against the railing holding me up by the back of my harness as I am helplessly dangling off the platform high above the ground. In shock, I spend a good five seconds suspended in air, arms flailing, legs wild kicking, and me screaming in true monkey fashion before finally being released.
Well, my Costa Rican chicas, I know how much you desperately wanted to see a wild monkey in the Costa Rican rainforests. Looks like you got what you asked for.
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
I GOT LUCKY!!! (F)
My roommates in Costa Rica are amazing! What were you thinking?
Long story short, being the random and travel freak that I am, I decided to take advantage of my time between jobs and do a completely different type of trip.
I now suddenly find myself lying on a top bunk of a four person shared room in Ciudad Quesada, Costa Rica. Who said camp was only for kids?
There are no beautiful beaches and I do not have a tropical drink in hand. Actually we are not even allowed to drink here. I am participating in a 2 week volunteer program “teaching” English at a small school to a bunch of Tico (“Costa Rican”) kids. Why teaching is in quotes, I will explain in a later blog posting.
After a quick stop in NY to see friends, I flew to Costa Rica to begin my program with the 40 other volunteers. Upon arriving at our “home base” which is like a cabin Costa Rica style in a Costa Rican suburb, I am ushered into a little room with 3 other girls, all teachers, between the ages of 25-32. I suddenly discover we are the “old women” of the program.
After meeting the other girls (almost all students and while nice, well, just young and quite a few of whom unappreciative of the experience, I am so thankful to have my roomies. Although, in defense of the students, I will admit that I spent more time running through the streets of Barcelona while studying abroad at 3am with an open wine bottle in hand than sitting through my Spanish classes, and would have most certainly never agreed to a trip involving no alcohol during my college years. I mean, wasn’t that what university was for?
But in my old age, I thirst for sophisticated conversation and early evenings to bed. Well, actually, we have somehow seemed to regress into sarcastic childhood jokes and just mesh well personality wise. Then again, while I would like to think they like me because of my witty and sweet personality, I think they may only be nice to me because I am one of the only ones with a laptop which I let them use in exchange for letting me into the “popular girls group.” This place really is like summer camp, complete with the annoying girl always trying to join into our group..whom we have secretly established a code word for as well as the “Wah wah” girl we all cannot stand who constantly complains and all avoid like the plague. Any of this bring back memories?
Weekends we have off, and this one is planned for a trip to Monteverde for some zip-lining, hiking, oh, and we knew we were all meant to be when looking hotels we saw one which had a private Jacuzzi on our own balcony and the first image we all had in our head was sipping champagne in our Jacuzzi overlooking the rainforests…needless to say we booked.
Oh, yeah, but I did mention the purpose of our trip was to volunteer right? I guess I am getting a bit side-tracked in my true ADD fashion. But as the tone will be quite different, I will save this for my next posting.
Long story short, being the random and travel freak that I am, I decided to take advantage of my time between jobs and do a completely different type of trip.
I now suddenly find myself lying on a top bunk of a four person shared room in Ciudad Quesada, Costa Rica. Who said camp was only for kids?
There are no beautiful beaches and I do not have a tropical drink in hand. Actually we are not even allowed to drink here. I am participating in a 2 week volunteer program “teaching” English at a small school to a bunch of Tico (“Costa Rican”) kids. Why teaching is in quotes, I will explain in a later blog posting.
After a quick stop in NY to see friends, I flew to Costa Rica to begin my program with the 40 other volunteers. Upon arriving at our “home base” which is like a cabin Costa Rica style in a Costa Rican suburb, I am ushered into a little room with 3 other girls, all teachers, between the ages of 25-32. I suddenly discover we are the “old women” of the program.
After meeting the other girls (almost all students and while nice, well, just young and quite a few of whom unappreciative of the experience, I am so thankful to have my roomies. Although, in defense of the students, I will admit that I spent more time running through the streets of Barcelona while studying abroad at 3am with an open wine bottle in hand than sitting through my Spanish classes, and would have most certainly never agreed to a trip involving no alcohol during my college years. I mean, wasn’t that what university was for?
But in my old age, I thirst for sophisticated conversation and early evenings to bed. Well, actually, we have somehow seemed to regress into sarcastic childhood jokes and just mesh well personality wise. Then again, while I would like to think they like me because of my witty and sweet personality, I think they may only be nice to me because I am one of the only ones with a laptop which I let them use in exchange for letting me into the “popular girls group.” This place really is like summer camp, complete with the annoying girl always trying to join into our group..whom we have secretly established a code word for as well as the “Wah wah” girl we all cannot stand who constantly complains and all avoid like the plague. Any of this bring back memories?
Weekends we have off, and this one is planned for a trip to Monteverde for some zip-lining, hiking, oh, and we knew we were all meant to be when looking hotels we saw one which had a private Jacuzzi on our own balcony and the first image we all had in our head was sipping champagne in our Jacuzzi overlooking the rainforests…needless to say we booked.
Oh, yeah, but I did mention the purpose of our trip was to volunteer right? I guess I am getting a bit side-tracked in my true ADD fashion. But as the tone will be quite different, I will save this for my next posting.
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