After my slightly cheesed off earlier post from Krakow, I am pleased to advise that while the bank problem remains unfixed, the soothing balm of the Adriatic has left me in a somewhat milder mood!
I am currently on a bus to Split, from where I will hop on a ferry to Hvar for 4 lazy lazy days, before ending in Dubrovnik next Monday. Hallelujah holidays!
Since Krakow we have; taken an entertaining, sleepless night train to Vienna, stayed in a hostel that stunk of rotting cabbage, rowed across Lake Bled in the Julian Alps (stunning!), watched the sunset in a village near Zadar while listening to music and looking at the sea, taken frenzied morning trips to the chemist (don't ask-it involves tummy bugs) and stuffed ourselves full of seafood a la Croatia. Needless to say, the girls and I are chilled. Or chilledski even?
I am breaking my own self imposed rule here by offering purely a narrative account, analysis free. Ah well - perhaps that's part of being truly relaxed - the not being too bothered, that is.
I am yet to decide whether the advent of the blackberry is a curse or a blessing for holidays. Downside - I can see what is going on at work all the time, Upside - I won't have too many emails to return to when I, shudder, return to work. The other thing is that it is remarkably handy to be able to google things to prove yourself right (or occasionally wrong!) when ensconsed in a dinner-time debate. The GPS is also useful (if not entirely understood by it's owner and her companions) and provides the light entertainment of watching onself represented as a red dot, aimlessly circling the strasses and platzs of Vienna, for example. Anyway, we shall see if I can bite the bullet and reduce the use of this wee device for this last week of sun, sun, sun.
Ok - I am nodding off - all that Electric Elephanting has made me weary. The ipod and travel snacks beckon, as does a nap with the practically obligatory open mouth and chin dribble. Mmmm. Glamourous.
Ciao.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
A Test
If I said that the past three months of blogger silence was a test to you, my loyal readership, would you believe me? I doubt it.
I can't diagnose the malady that has prevented me from writing. I've thought about writing and have just not really had anything to say. The advent of the facebook status removes the need for any minor, pressing issues to be blogged & the British summer and the need to make the most of the long days has reduced my (already finite) spare time. Anyway. I now have something to say - I am on holiday.
I am with Ellie and Claudia in Krakow. We are on the first full day of an 18 day day Central European odyssey. Monday night we catch a train to Vienna, then on to Ljubjana & Bled in Slovenia, then to Croatia for a week of beaches and not much else.
First point of note is that last night, I slept under a hammer & sickle flag, in the 'Lenin Room' of the Elephant on the Moon hostel. (It's lovely, super clean, cheap - and as I type this a mouth watering Polish breakfast awaits....mmmmm).
Second point of note is that by mutual agreement, all three of us left warm clothes at home. This is because were were convinced that the weather was going to be so sunny that we wouldn't need anything knitted or fleecy. The upshot of all that is, it's raining. And chilly. So today we may go to the underground salt mines about 90 minutes from here, as apparently that's the best thing to do in such natty weather.
In fact, it hasn't been quite the start to the holiday we imagined. As we sat eating Polishified Georgian food last night in the Old Town, watching rain that was positively torrential, I called my bank to ascertain why I was unable to access any money. 'Your card has been cloned' they informed me, 'And so we put a block on your card being used outside the UK.' 'Oh you did did you? Did you thnk about INFORMING me before you did this?' I replied, extremely cheesed off, 'It's ok', said the call centre man, 'We will allow you to access 100 pounds per day throughout your holiday.' Fortunately I am backpacking, and am not a more wealthy customer with designs upon antiques and art, otherwise this would be even less practical than it already is. To say I am cross is an understatement. The only thing my bank did to redeem themselves, was to credit my account with the 20 pounds, which in my fury I guesstimated would have been the cost of my phone call to the UK.
So, I am going to have to think quite carefully about how to access MY OWN MONEY throughout the holiday, and will be writing a terse letter when I get home. I can't believe they didn't call me before they put a stop on my card, particularly when, as a regular traveller, a cursory glance at the last 2 months statements would have suggested that I MIGHT NEED TO USE MY CARD OVERSEAS.
Right, rant over.
Krakow is a lovely city - Poland's most popular. A population that is Adelaide size-ish, but smooshed closer to the centre in the trademark apartment blocks of post-Soviet cities. We can't wait to do some stuff - I just wish I wasn't looking out the window, across this table full of delicious Polish breakfast food, to see drizzle. Yes, it is DRIZZLE. Not even proper rain. :-(
Right - o. The girls will sleep all day if I don't go and jump on them to wake them, so I think that's what I may do. The promise of ood always works a treat too. On all of us. :-)
Kepp an eye out - I may well blog a few times the next few weeks. Just because I can!
I can't diagnose the malady that has prevented me from writing. I've thought about writing and have just not really had anything to say. The advent of the facebook status removes the need for any minor, pressing issues to be blogged & the British summer and the need to make the most of the long days has reduced my (already finite) spare time. Anyway. I now have something to say - I am on holiday.
I am with Ellie and Claudia in Krakow. We are on the first full day of an 18 day day Central European odyssey. Monday night we catch a train to Vienna, then on to Ljubjana & Bled in Slovenia, then to Croatia for a week of beaches and not much else.
First point of note is that last night, I slept under a hammer & sickle flag, in the 'Lenin Room' of the Elephant on the Moon hostel. (It's lovely, super clean, cheap - and as I type this a mouth watering Polish breakfast awaits....mmmmm).
Second point of note is that by mutual agreement, all three of us left warm clothes at home. This is because were were convinced that the weather was going to be so sunny that we wouldn't need anything knitted or fleecy. The upshot of all that is, it's raining. And chilly. So today we may go to the underground salt mines about 90 minutes from here, as apparently that's the best thing to do in such natty weather.
In fact, it hasn't been quite the start to the holiday we imagined. As we sat eating Polishified Georgian food last night in the Old Town, watching rain that was positively torrential, I called my bank to ascertain why I was unable to access any money. 'Your card has been cloned' they informed me, 'And so we put a block on your card being used outside the UK.' 'Oh you did did you? Did you thnk about INFORMING me before you did this?' I replied, extremely cheesed off, 'It's ok', said the call centre man, 'We will allow you to access 100 pounds per day throughout your holiday.' Fortunately I am backpacking, and am not a more wealthy customer with designs upon antiques and art, otherwise this would be even less practical than it already is. To say I am cross is an understatement. The only thing my bank did to redeem themselves, was to credit my account with the 20 pounds, which in my fury I guesstimated would have been the cost of my phone call to the UK.
So, I am going to have to think quite carefully about how to access MY OWN MONEY throughout the holiday, and will be writing a terse letter when I get home. I can't believe they didn't call me before they put a stop on my card, particularly when, as a regular traveller, a cursory glance at the last 2 months statements would have suggested that I MIGHT NEED TO USE MY CARD OVERSEAS.
Right, rant over.
Krakow is a lovely city - Poland's most popular. A population that is Adelaide size-ish, but smooshed closer to the centre in the trademark apartment blocks of post-Soviet cities. We can't wait to do some stuff - I just wish I wasn't looking out the window, across this table full of delicious Polish breakfast food, to see drizzle. Yes, it is DRIZZLE. Not even proper rain. :-(
Right - o. The girls will sleep all day if I don't go and jump on them to wake them, so I think that's what I may do. The promise of ood always works a treat too. On all of us. :-)
Kepp an eye out - I may well blog a few times the next few weeks. Just because I can!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Airborne
While I won’t be able to publish this post until I land, I nonetheless write from the flukey luxury of the emergency exit seat of my flight to Moscow. Week two of this particular glut of travel has begun, where I take one step further toward reluctantly becoming carbon-footprintesse; racking up the airmiles faster than you can say ‘the Amazon is shrinking’. Actually, that last bit is a lie – from the unglamourous world of discount economy, the points don’t accrue quite as fast as one would hope. But as usual I digress.
A mildly depressing by-product of the travel (which don’t for a moment, think I don’t enjoy) is that the novelty wears off. Not that long ago, entering airports still gave me that slight nervous feeling in the bottom of my tummy; packing the night before was exciting, sitting in the confines of an aeroplane cabin was cool and not irritating and the window seat was a coveted prize.
Alas, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. The ugly underbelly of the whole thing (apart from the increasing disconnexion with your life at home) is that your skin dries out like an old boot, your diet is thrown into disarray by time differences & hotel breakfasts, and the wonderful efficiencies of such airborne conveniences as ‘BA’s own handwash/airfreshener’ wreak havoc on a gal’s physiology.
All of my closest friends know of my tendency to spontaneously break out in bizarre red rashes & flushes – probably an unfortunate inheritance of rosacea from my mother-dearest. This somewhat unpredictable condition seems to be exacerbated by the ‘less than 1%’ humidity environment of the plane (I just read that in the in-flight magazine) and the chemical innovations that British Air obviously considers time and space savers. (If every poor sod to use the loo washes their hands with that awful 2 in 1 stuff, I don’t suppose it matters how smelly the darned facility gets). Increasingly I understand the carefully selected array of cosmetics available on board in the duty free catalogue – 8 hour Cream to quench my skin’s equivalent of a rollicking hangover, and various eye potions to smooth the wrinkly depressions that develop around my squinting peepers.
I’m not for a moment trying to sound brattish and hoity-toity about all of this. Landing in Kyiv on a Tuesday only to fly to Vienna on a Thursday and Moscow the following Monday is the randomest, most brilliant thing to do in the name of work that I can currently imagine. What’s even more fortunate is that I actually enjoy what I do at either end of the journey.
This current travel glut more exciting than usual for a couple of reasons. This week I am in Moscow for nearly 4 whole days, innocently timed to coincide with the Chelsea v Manchester United match on Wednesday night. The atmosphere in Moscow promises to be as electric as the prods holstered in the utility belts of the riot police, as they jab all the unsuspecting footy yobs (who are about to get the shock of their lives in Moscow) in their parochial backsides.
The second cause for excitement is that Mama Neary is currently here, and we are flying together to Spain (Benahavis to be precise) on Friday after I touch back down in Londres for a whole 12 hours. All I know about Benahavis is that I am staying in a spa hotel, there are a lot of very very good restaurants around, and that there is a high probability of a high proportion of sun. B-E-A-utiful.
Anyway, given my good fortune in being allocated a seat with expansive and luxurious leg room, it would seem almost sinful not to at least stretch out and lap it up. This is virtually impossible to do with my laptop propped on my lap, so das vitanya. Or however they say it in Moskva.
A mildly depressing by-product of the travel (which don’t for a moment, think I don’t enjoy) is that the novelty wears off. Not that long ago, entering airports still gave me that slight nervous feeling in the bottom of my tummy; packing the night before was exciting, sitting in the confines of an aeroplane cabin was cool and not irritating and the window seat was a coveted prize.
Alas, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. The ugly underbelly of the whole thing (apart from the increasing disconnexion with your life at home) is that your skin dries out like an old boot, your diet is thrown into disarray by time differences & hotel breakfasts, and the wonderful efficiencies of such airborne conveniences as ‘BA’s own handwash/airfreshener’ wreak havoc on a gal’s physiology.
All of my closest friends know of my tendency to spontaneously break out in bizarre red rashes & flushes – probably an unfortunate inheritance of rosacea from my mother-dearest. This somewhat unpredictable condition seems to be exacerbated by the ‘less than 1%’ humidity environment of the plane (I just read that in the in-flight magazine) and the chemical innovations that British Air obviously considers time and space savers. (If every poor sod to use the loo washes their hands with that awful 2 in 1 stuff, I don’t suppose it matters how smelly the darned facility gets). Increasingly I understand the carefully selected array of cosmetics available on board in the duty free catalogue – 8 hour Cream to quench my skin’s equivalent of a rollicking hangover, and various eye potions to smooth the wrinkly depressions that develop around my squinting peepers.
I’m not for a moment trying to sound brattish and hoity-toity about all of this. Landing in Kyiv on a Tuesday only to fly to Vienna on a Thursday and Moscow the following Monday is the randomest, most brilliant thing to do in the name of work that I can currently imagine. What’s even more fortunate is that I actually enjoy what I do at either end of the journey.
This current travel glut more exciting than usual for a couple of reasons. This week I am in Moscow for nearly 4 whole days, innocently timed to coincide with the Chelsea v Manchester United match on Wednesday night. The atmosphere in Moscow promises to be as electric as the prods holstered in the utility belts of the riot police, as they jab all the unsuspecting footy yobs (who are about to get the shock of their lives in Moscow) in their parochial backsides.
The second cause for excitement is that Mama Neary is currently here, and we are flying together to Spain (Benahavis to be precise) on Friday after I touch back down in Londres for a whole 12 hours. All I know about Benahavis is that I am staying in a spa hotel, there are a lot of very very good restaurants around, and that there is a high probability of a high proportion of sun. B-E-A-utiful.
Anyway, given my good fortune in being allocated a seat with expansive and luxurious leg room, it would seem almost sinful not to at least stretch out and lap it up. This is virtually impossible to do with my laptop propped on my lap, so das vitanya. Or however they say it in Moskva.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Chivalry
So finally, I am writing a post on here. After two months of not very much, I've found some inspiration. I have a policy you see, of not writing on here unless I have something interesting (at least in my humble opinion) to say. So much meaningless and unconsidered pap abounds on the Internet, that while not necessarily always being able to avoid adding to the pile, I'd like to think that I can at least self-censor until I have something a)vaguely witty b)vaguely thematic or c) where a and b cannot be achieved, something that meets the basic threshold criteria of being, vaguely interesting.
I have thus decided to write a note on British chivalry. I hope you don't mind if I simultaneously tuck in to my wild mushroom ravioli having just got in from a muscle pulverising session on the power plates - my new favourite gym equipment.
So.
The British are known for having good manners. As a British-born Australian-raised anomaly, I often find these manners rather stultifying, however equally as often, I find them quite nice and endearing.
One thing that I find quite hard to adjust to, and which I don't recall happening anywhere near as consistently in Australia, is when I am waiting either to get in or out of the lift at work, and find that any member of the male species who happens to be waiting to do the same, makes a very English point of allowing me to either enter or exit first.
After over nine months I still don't think I have got the feminine etiquette right in this situation.
Does one simply ignore the fact that every man in the lift is standing there waiting politely for you to exit first, and stride out, chin up and feigning oblivion? (Sometimes I do this.) Or rather, make subtle eye contact with the waiting gent, tilt her head ever so slightly in self-effacing acknowledgement and then walk out? (Sometimes I do this.) Or do I (and this is my instinctive reaction) - roll my eyes in reluctant acceptance of this chivalry, say 'thanks' in my broadest Austrayan accent, and walk on ahead?
Sigh. Daily, five, six, seven times I take the lift between floors and am faced with this quandary, which I suspect, were I born and bread in mother England, wouldn't even register on my 'thing-dar' as being a thing.
The other chivalrous act which causes me some trepidation is the assistance that British (and central European for that matter) gentlemen will often provide with one's coat. Being a northern lass, broad-of shoulder but disproportionately narrow in lower rib-cage, the cut of coat I seem to buy does not lend itself to the athletic manoeuvre that is, struggling into a coat that is being held open behind you by a date/friend/senior partner of the firm, however kind their intentions. I am therefore often at my most unwieldy and least glamorous when struggling into a coat at the end of a pleasant lunch/dinner/drink in a bar...... Woe is me, the tall woman who prefers to wear 2-3 inch heels, participates enthusiastically in conversation, thereby drawing enough attention to herself to ensure that the coat-struggling leads to one of those embarrassing flushes to which she is prone - the kind that creeps down the sides of her neck and betrays her discomfort!
My final note on British chivalry is this. All of the above flies madly out of the window when one takes the Underground. The kindly Associate who might wait for you to step into the lift, will elbow you out of the way, without a qualm, should he happen to meet you in the Hobbesian world of the platform at King's Cross station at 9.05am. The polite and softly spoken gent with whom you have shared a quiet cocktail or two in some chichi bar prior to his ably provided assistance with your coat, will happily elbow you in the face whilst smushed against you like a sardine, leaving you hunched like a wilting hydrangea in that annoying section at the side of each tube carriage (on the Piccadilly line especially) that was created for hobbits, dwarfs and all other beings under 4'11.
The philosophical question which I now pose is this? If these good manners, and particularly the gendered ones of the nature I have described above, don't extend to the Londoner's daily commute - what in fact is the point of them? :-)
Anyway, I've said all I need to say on that.
A quick update on other news - I spent Easter in Latvia, as the loyal amongst you would know. It was great and I'd recommend a visit. Don't expect to sleep.
I was meant to go to Vienna for work today, but the trip was cancelled at the last minute because one of the Partners who was due to come, had to work on a big transaction which was going to close at the same time as she was meant to be standing in front of a client teaching them about share purchase agreements. So that was a bit annoying.
I've started reading my first piece of central and eastern European literature - The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. Dad did you ever read him at Uni?
There are a couple of other developments, but they are a bit embarrassing and I've not decided whether I am prepared to publicly humiliate myself yet for your reading-pleasure.....
Mum is coming in May and we are going to visit Marbella in Spain (the alarming growth of my carbon footprint by virtue of air travel this year, does not escape my attention - fear not.)
I have my first trip to Kyiv, also in May which friends tell me makes the hedonism of Warsaw, Riga and Moscow look dilute.
In June I intend to attend a big summer festival here in London.
July = bonus time! Yippee!
August = the central European odyssey with Ellie. Jumping out of my skin with excitement at the though of sitting in a chalet in the Julian Alps overlooking Lake Bled in Slovenia, sitting on a towel admiring the southern Croatian coast, catching a train to a spa-island just outside Bratislava. Sigh.
Sorry folks. Can't see myself leaving this part of the world quiiiiiteee yet.
xx
I have thus decided to write a note on British chivalry. I hope you don't mind if I simultaneously tuck in to my wild mushroom ravioli having just got in from a muscle pulverising session on the power plates - my new favourite gym equipment.
So.
The British are known for having good manners. As a British-born Australian-raised anomaly, I often find these manners rather stultifying, however equally as often, I find them quite nice and endearing.
One thing that I find quite hard to adjust to, and which I don't recall happening anywhere near as consistently in Australia, is when I am waiting either to get in or out of the lift at work, and find that any member of the male species who happens to be waiting to do the same, makes a very English point of allowing me to either enter or exit first.
After over nine months I still don't think I have got the feminine etiquette right in this situation.
Does one simply ignore the fact that every man in the lift is standing there waiting politely for you to exit first, and stride out, chin up and feigning oblivion? (Sometimes I do this.) Or rather, make subtle eye contact with the waiting gent, tilt her head ever so slightly in self-effacing acknowledgement and then walk out? (Sometimes I do this.) Or do I (and this is my instinctive reaction) - roll my eyes in reluctant acceptance of this chivalry, say 'thanks' in my broadest Austrayan accent, and walk on ahead?
Sigh. Daily, five, six, seven times I take the lift between floors and am faced with this quandary, which I suspect, were I born and bread in mother England, wouldn't even register on my 'thing-dar' as being a thing.
The other chivalrous act which causes me some trepidation is the assistance that British (and central European for that matter) gentlemen will often provide with one's coat. Being a northern lass, broad-of shoulder but disproportionately narrow in lower rib-cage, the cut of coat I seem to buy does not lend itself to the athletic manoeuvre that is, struggling into a coat that is being held open behind you by a date/friend/senior partner of the firm, however kind their intentions. I am therefore often at my most unwieldy and least glamorous when struggling into a coat at the end of a pleasant lunch/dinner/drink in a bar...... Woe is me, the tall woman who prefers to wear 2-3 inch heels, participates enthusiastically in conversation, thereby drawing enough attention to herself to ensure that the coat-struggling leads to one of those embarrassing flushes to which she is prone - the kind that creeps down the sides of her neck and betrays her discomfort!
My final note on British chivalry is this. All of the above flies madly out of the window when one takes the Underground. The kindly Associate who might wait for you to step into the lift, will elbow you out of the way, without a qualm, should he happen to meet you in the Hobbesian world of the platform at King's Cross station at 9.05am. The polite and softly spoken gent with whom you have shared a quiet cocktail or two in some chichi bar prior to his ably provided assistance with your coat, will happily elbow you in the face whilst smushed against you like a sardine, leaving you hunched like a wilting hydrangea in that annoying section at the side of each tube carriage (on the Piccadilly line especially) that was created for hobbits, dwarfs and all other beings under 4'11.
The philosophical question which I now pose is this? If these good manners, and particularly the gendered ones of the nature I have described above, don't extend to the Londoner's daily commute - what in fact is the point of them? :-)
Anyway, I've said all I need to say on that.
A quick update on other news - I spent Easter in Latvia, as the loyal amongst you would know. It was great and I'd recommend a visit. Don't expect to sleep.
I was meant to go to Vienna for work today, but the trip was cancelled at the last minute because one of the Partners who was due to come, had to work on a big transaction which was going to close at the same time as she was meant to be standing in front of a client teaching them about share purchase agreements. So that was a bit annoying.
I've started reading my first piece of central and eastern European literature - The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. Dad did you ever read him at Uni?
There are a couple of other developments, but they are a bit embarrassing and I've not decided whether I am prepared to publicly humiliate myself yet for your reading-pleasure.....
Mum is coming in May and we are going to visit Marbella in Spain (the alarming growth of my carbon footprint by virtue of air travel this year, does not escape my attention - fear not.)
I have my first trip to Kyiv, also in May which friends tell me makes the hedonism of Warsaw, Riga and Moscow look dilute.
In June I intend to attend a big summer festival here in London.
July = bonus time! Yippee!
August = the central European odyssey with Ellie. Jumping out of my skin with excitement at the though of sitting in a chalet in the Julian Alps overlooking Lake Bled in Slovenia, sitting on a towel admiring the southern Croatian coast, catching a train to a spa-island just outside Bratislava. Sigh.
Sorry folks. Can't see myself leaving this part of the world quiiiiiteee yet.
xx
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Look! I'm in Riga!
I have not written on my blog for ages and ages. Thoroughly neglectful and utterly lazy.
To tide you over till I get time to write something proper - here is a picture of me in Riga over the Easter weekend. I went with four friends - all male - and had an absolute ball!
To tide you over till I get time to write something proper - here is a picture of me in Riga over the Easter weekend. I went with four friends - all male - and had an absolute ball!
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Friday, February 08, 2008
Four Countries, Four Weeks, Energy, Fatigue
"Excuse me, I'm sorry, there's not a lot of room. I hope you don't mind me standing here', I said to the two young gentlemen standing at the bar in Platinum, Warsaw.
'Is that an Australian accent?' said one of them, obviously himself an Aussie far from home.
'Indeed it is' I replied.
And thereupon started one of the more interesting and serendipitous meetings of the past few weeks.
Rewind some time.
My feet touched the ground in London last Wednesday evening. I had spent the five preceding days in Warsaw, and the three immediately before that in Moscow. In the week prior, and the one immediately after my most recent post, I was in Prague.
My arm has an increasingly black looking mark on it from where I continue to pinch myself. These are the places where I now find myself working. Honestly, I can't believe my luck. As the line from Sound of Music goes 'Somewhere in my youth, or childhood...I must have done something good.' Forgive me, as always, for my cheesy lapses.
Alas, Prague was a bit of a rush. Client training, the first of three, a new initiative, to-ing and fro-ing and lots of people to see, I mashed my sightseeing into 15 minutes and ran back to the office to jump in a taxi. I shall return there and stay longer. It is a stunning city, absolutely beautiful.
Moscow on the other hand was slightly less frenetic. I have 2 pals in that office - an Adelaide boy and a Sydney boy. They took me to dinner (on expenses, god bless expenses!) and then for a walk through the snow to Red Square. Where I stood. Like an idiot. Cursing the limitations of the camera on my blackberry and wanting to snap the place from every angle, and cursing my own ignorance for not knowing more about the history of the place. I know enough to get it, but not enough to really get it. That makes limited sense.
Apologies, I still haven't redressed by sleep deficit.
Moscow is not an easy place to visit. Of the 7 offices I work in, and the 5 I have been to thus far, it is the furthest away, it has the biggest time difference, smiling gets you nowhere, and English even less. It is a vast and intimidating city, ironically materialistic but still somehow not Western. Even the sign on McDonalds is written in cyrillic. Now people, imagine it........
It is wildly expensive, and I cannot fathom how people not fortunate enough to have an ex-pat's salary or a corporate credit card manage to eek out their existence. My accommodation for one night in that place cost well over three quarters of my weekly take-home pay. And the hotel was sub-par, the breakfast utterly dismal.
Again the faces, the faces - they are different. The eyes on the metro (I caught it with Arty and Mark) are sad, the jawlines set, movements measured, reactions considered. It is the only place where I have been that the use of English, even mere pleasantries, is consistently, overwhelmingly, met with a blank expressionless stare. You will be treated more favourably, it would appear, if you speak gruffly in any language, without eye contact, and raise your voice if you don't get your own way.
I am painting, not undeliberately, an unfriendly picture. It only got to about -10 when I was there. It snowed for only the second time this year. 'This is not winter' explained the Muscovites in my office, 'there is no snow' (this was patently untrue, I could see it everywhere) 'It is not cold' (this last point, I can also verify, was patently untrue). By Moscow standards perhaps, and for people accustomed to fierce, biting, unforgiving winters, this was all true.
In a cab, an amusing thing happened. I use the term 'cab' loosely, as in Moscow, every man with a car is a possible conduit between you and your destination. Bereft of Russian, I was dependent on my pals and colleagues to sort out such vehicles to ferry me about. In one cab with a man who looked like he was from the outskirts of the former Soviet Union, (a '-stan' country) I mused with Arthur about whether this was truly safe. 'Don't be silly, it's fine, trust me' he said. Conceding I replied 'Where do you think this guy is from?' 'I don't want to say in case he understands me'. 'What does it start with?' I pressed. "Maybe a 'T'??' was Arthur's answer. A few moments of silence.
'So are you guys tourists?' came the voice of the driver. This in a city where my ears barely heard English spoken. Arthur and I looked at each other slightly embarassed, wondering how much our driver had understood.
The flight home was delayed, and then, frustratingly an hour of my life was sucked away by the tarmac at Heathrow. 'I'm awfully sorry chaps', said the pilot, 'I'm going to turn the engines off, it looks like we will be sitting here awhile. Feel free to turn on your phones and call who you need to.' He may not have said chaps. I didn't hear. I, like the other be-suited types onboard were already clicking our tongues on our teeth, powering up our blackberries, and furiously flicking emails here and there complaining about the airport, imploring our taxi's to wait awhile longer for us.
How suddenly one becomes accustomed to this kind of existence!
10 hours later, and after a fairly fitful sleep, I was on the plane to Warsaw to join the staff of that office for their annual ball. I had big expectations for this city, having developed a semi-fixation on Polish men, and having made some absolutely fabulous Polish friends. It didn't disappoint me.
Warsaw is not a beautiful city. It was flattened, demolished with calculating completeness in the second world war. Now the skyline is dominated by tower blocks, slightly less ugly than those in Moscow, but nonetheless unattractive. These building were erected in the 50's and 60's to house the thousands of people who returned to the city. As my dear friend Izabela explained 'these were meant to be temporary', but I guess the advent of communism meant that the incentive to knock them down was removed.
Did you know that the hedonistic heyday of Poland was in the 20's and 30's, pre-war? Either did I, until Iza took Kat and I to a fabulous art gallery. I have never seen the history of a place depicted so clearly through art as I did there. Such pronounced differences, from the Parisian reminiscent chic of that pre-war period, giving way to the influences of war, and then to the greys and industry of communism. Amazing. And illuminating.
The old town, completely destroyed, and completely rebuilt. It looks therefore 'new' old. But is no less fantastic for it.
I found Warsaw to be a very calming place. Notwithstanding two extraordinarily late nights (the second which I alluded to in the opening of this post) and a thorough insight into the life of the many young, glamorous, wealthy Poles who are making the most of the contemporary opportunities, I still found it to be calm and peaceful. I consider myself very lucky to have several good friends there, Izabela in particular.
And the chance meeting I mentioned above, led to a meeting in the office on Tuesday between one of the teams, and a high profile client (Australian). So it would seem, I may have paid for my trip in a roundabout way. Perhaps next year I shall ask for a 'business development' allowance, to facilitate clubbing in Eastern Europe..... not as preposterous as it sounds. :-)
Ladida. It could all get a bit intoxicating this constant travel. Fortunately, next Wednesday (actually, in 4 days time) I shall jump once more aboard a plane, to fly back to Australia. You can bring me crashing back to earth, and pick on the supposed English twang in my accent. As long are you are buying me Pale Ale, by the pint, I shall let you get away with it.
Good evening. Das vitanya. Do widzenia.
'Is that an Australian accent?' said one of them, obviously himself an Aussie far from home.
'Indeed it is' I replied.
And thereupon started one of the more interesting and serendipitous meetings of the past few weeks.
Rewind some time.
My feet touched the ground in London last Wednesday evening. I had spent the five preceding days in Warsaw, and the three immediately before that in Moscow. In the week prior, and the one immediately after my most recent post, I was in Prague.
My arm has an increasingly black looking mark on it from where I continue to pinch myself. These are the places where I now find myself working. Honestly, I can't believe my luck. As the line from Sound of Music goes 'Somewhere in my youth, or childhood...I must have done something good.' Forgive me, as always, for my cheesy lapses.
Alas, Prague was a bit of a rush. Client training, the first of three, a new initiative, to-ing and fro-ing and lots of people to see, I mashed my sightseeing into 15 minutes and ran back to the office to jump in a taxi. I shall return there and stay longer. It is a stunning city, absolutely beautiful.
Moscow on the other hand was slightly less frenetic. I have 2 pals in that office - an Adelaide boy and a Sydney boy. They took me to dinner (on expenses, god bless expenses!) and then for a walk through the snow to Red Square. Where I stood. Like an idiot. Cursing the limitations of the camera on my blackberry and wanting to snap the place from every angle, and cursing my own ignorance for not knowing more about the history of the place. I know enough to get it, but not enough to really get it. That makes limited sense.
Apologies, I still haven't redressed by sleep deficit.
Moscow is not an easy place to visit. Of the 7 offices I work in, and the 5 I have been to thus far, it is the furthest away, it has the biggest time difference, smiling gets you nowhere, and English even less. It is a vast and intimidating city, ironically materialistic but still somehow not Western. Even the sign on McDonalds is written in cyrillic. Now people, imagine it........
It is wildly expensive, and I cannot fathom how people not fortunate enough to have an ex-pat's salary or a corporate credit card manage to eek out their existence. My accommodation for one night in that place cost well over three quarters of my weekly take-home pay. And the hotel was sub-par, the breakfast utterly dismal.
Again the faces, the faces - they are different. The eyes on the metro (I caught it with Arty and Mark) are sad, the jawlines set, movements measured, reactions considered. It is the only place where I have been that the use of English, even mere pleasantries, is consistently, overwhelmingly, met with a blank expressionless stare. You will be treated more favourably, it would appear, if you speak gruffly in any language, without eye contact, and raise your voice if you don't get your own way.
I am painting, not undeliberately, an unfriendly picture. It only got to about -10 when I was there. It snowed for only the second time this year. 'This is not winter' explained the Muscovites in my office, 'there is no snow' (this was patently untrue, I could see it everywhere) 'It is not cold' (this last point, I can also verify, was patently untrue). By Moscow standards perhaps, and for people accustomed to fierce, biting, unforgiving winters, this was all true.
In a cab, an amusing thing happened. I use the term 'cab' loosely, as in Moscow, every man with a car is a possible conduit between you and your destination. Bereft of Russian, I was dependent on my pals and colleagues to sort out such vehicles to ferry me about. In one cab with a man who looked like he was from the outskirts of the former Soviet Union, (a '-stan' country) I mused with Arthur about whether this was truly safe. 'Don't be silly, it's fine, trust me' he said. Conceding I replied 'Where do you think this guy is from?' 'I don't want to say in case he understands me'. 'What does it start with?' I pressed. "Maybe a 'T'??' was Arthur's answer. A few moments of silence.
'So are you guys tourists?' came the voice of the driver. This in a city where my ears barely heard English spoken. Arthur and I looked at each other slightly embarassed, wondering how much our driver had understood.
The flight home was delayed, and then, frustratingly an hour of my life was sucked away by the tarmac at Heathrow. 'I'm awfully sorry chaps', said the pilot, 'I'm going to turn the engines off, it looks like we will be sitting here awhile. Feel free to turn on your phones and call who you need to.' He may not have said chaps. I didn't hear. I, like the other be-suited types onboard were already clicking our tongues on our teeth, powering up our blackberries, and furiously flicking emails here and there complaining about the airport, imploring our taxi's to wait awhile longer for us.
How suddenly one becomes accustomed to this kind of existence!
10 hours later, and after a fairly fitful sleep, I was on the plane to Warsaw to join the staff of that office for their annual ball. I had big expectations for this city, having developed a semi-fixation on Polish men, and having made some absolutely fabulous Polish friends. It didn't disappoint me.
Warsaw is not a beautiful city. It was flattened, demolished with calculating completeness in the second world war. Now the skyline is dominated by tower blocks, slightly less ugly than those in Moscow, but nonetheless unattractive. These building were erected in the 50's and 60's to house the thousands of people who returned to the city. As my dear friend Izabela explained 'these were meant to be temporary', but I guess the advent of communism meant that the incentive to knock them down was removed.
Did you know that the hedonistic heyday of Poland was in the 20's and 30's, pre-war? Either did I, until Iza took Kat and I to a fabulous art gallery. I have never seen the history of a place depicted so clearly through art as I did there. Such pronounced differences, from the Parisian reminiscent chic of that pre-war period, giving way to the influences of war, and then to the greys and industry of communism. Amazing. And illuminating.
The old town, completely destroyed, and completely rebuilt. It looks therefore 'new' old. But is no less fantastic for it.
I found Warsaw to be a very calming place. Notwithstanding two extraordinarily late nights (the second which I alluded to in the opening of this post) and a thorough insight into the life of the many young, glamorous, wealthy Poles who are making the most of the contemporary opportunities, I still found it to be calm and peaceful. I consider myself very lucky to have several good friends there, Izabela in particular.
And the chance meeting I mentioned above, led to a meeting in the office on Tuesday between one of the teams, and a high profile client (Australian). So it would seem, I may have paid for my trip in a roundabout way. Perhaps next year I shall ask for a 'business development' allowance, to facilitate clubbing in Eastern Europe..... not as preposterous as it sounds. :-)
Ladida. It could all get a bit intoxicating this constant travel. Fortunately, next Wednesday (actually, in 4 days time) I shall jump once more aboard a plane, to fly back to Australia. You can bring me crashing back to earth, and pick on the supposed English twang in my accent. As long are you are buying me Pale Ale, by the pint, I shall let you get away with it.
Good evening. Das vitanya. Do widzenia.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Snow and Faces
I am currently in Bucharest writing this from my blackberry. Forgive the poorly thought out ideas. Am blogging as best as I can from the comfort of my hotel bed in a country where the water is apparently brown sometimes.
Naively, I always had in my mind previously that the countries behind the former iron curtain were in some small way uniform. Obviously it had occurred to me that there were differences, but what I didn't expect to find was that the single, the only common thread that bound them during that era was communism. Ethnic, cultural, linguistic, historical diversity that was, apparently, repressed to varying degrees during that long era now manifests everywhere.
But the thing that has most surprised me quite possibly is the faces. Romanian faces seem to be vaguely mediterranean and I learned tonight that Romanian is a Latin derived language-closer to Spanish or Italian than it is to its at once close and distant slavic neigbours.
Bucharest is cloaked in snow right now and it is cold,but in an exciting rather than numbing way. People at work have been laughing at my (as it turns out) misplaced trepidation about how to cope with icy pavements and trudging through snow drifts.The truth is that here, unlike in England, they are accustomed to and thus prepared for snow. It makes it easier to cope with. Having borrowed an exquisitely cosy rabbit lined anorak from Frilly certainly helps. To the friends expressing their horror at my wearing of fur- a thought for you- try waiting for a cab in -12 without a fur and see how your opinion changes.... :-) Anyway, rabbits are pests.
I suspect I may have started a fire with that burst of capriciousness..!
Anyway. The snow is wonderful. As surprisingly is the freezing fog. I feel like a lock-jawed ninny staring glazed eyed from the taxi window at cars buried in snow, and like a cool-clime novice when I express surprise at aircraft casually parked on unnatural and abandoned angles aside the runway.
Could I live in it? Certainly not. But as a visitor whose time is made finite here by the prospect of snow on Thursday and the inflexible conditions of my return ticket, the snow is delicious.
As is the prospect of 8 uninterupted hours of sleep. Starting now.
Naively, I always had in my mind previously that the countries behind the former iron curtain were in some small way uniform. Obviously it had occurred to me that there were differences, but what I didn't expect to find was that the single, the only common thread that bound them during that era was communism. Ethnic, cultural, linguistic, historical diversity that was, apparently, repressed to varying degrees during that long era now manifests everywhere.
But the thing that has most surprised me quite possibly is the faces. Romanian faces seem to be vaguely mediterranean and I learned tonight that Romanian is a Latin derived language-closer to Spanish or Italian than it is to its at once close and distant slavic neigbours.
Bucharest is cloaked in snow right now and it is cold,but in an exciting rather than numbing way. People at work have been laughing at my (as it turns out) misplaced trepidation about how to cope with icy pavements and trudging through snow drifts.The truth is that here, unlike in England, they are accustomed to and thus prepared for snow. It makes it easier to cope with. Having borrowed an exquisitely cosy rabbit lined anorak from Frilly certainly helps. To the friends expressing their horror at my wearing of fur- a thought for you- try waiting for a cab in -12 without a fur and see how your opinion changes.... :-) Anyway, rabbits are pests.
I suspect I may have started a fire with that burst of capriciousness..!
Anyway. The snow is wonderful. As surprisingly is the freezing fog. I feel like a lock-jawed ninny staring glazed eyed from the taxi window at cars buried in snow, and like a cool-clime novice when I express surprise at aircraft casually parked on unnatural and abandoned angles aside the runway.
Could I live in it? Certainly not. But as a visitor whose time is made finite here by the prospect of snow on Thursday and the inflexible conditions of my return ticket, the snow is delicious.
As is the prospect of 8 uninterupted hours of sleep. Starting now.
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