Only an excerpt. I wish I could have been there to see this.
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.
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