Step forward my child, today I promote you to adulthood, tell the Sales Manager that I want to buy his brand spanking new electronical gadget.....
Stupdity is dumped upon me as I cannot buy a something, essential to ordinary life in the modern world like an i-pod. I am a foreigner in his store. I must confer with the Sales Manager to buy this new toy. I must refer to a son who has culturally adapted, I must defer to my boy who speaks the lingo, who can show me up with a shared laugh with the Sales Manager and who knows if its at my expense. They do.
Role reversal humbles me, this would probably occupy a behavioural scientist for a thesis or two.
Money is exchanged and my boy is happy with his new i-Pod and role reversal returns me to my rightful place and we thank the Power of the Credit Card.
Damned by my search for the Euro-dollar, saved by my search for the Euro-dollar. There may be a life lesson here that I should determine if I have found a metaphor, an allegory, a paradigm, or a resolution.
Instead a resolution is made to return to the language lessons, to watch the local TV, to read the local papers, to culturally integrate, a resolution to not enjoy myself after work after not enjoying myself at work. One day I will thank myself and that one day is probably when the Euro shadow of 'Sky' dawns and a subscription has been paid.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Stuck in the Middle....
Like a song I am stuck in the middle of Nowhere with you, and this is not a Love Song, an old school 45 repeating the line of what was a nice song now kaputt, boredom-to- super-panicked in nano seconds, de-fibrillators on standby, my overdue heart attack could be seconds away. I am in a foreign airport with an associate that business wise one can tolerate, but as a holiday buddy this is straining all things strainable. The flight is delayed......the flight is cancelled. This business trip is fast becoming an unplanned unwanted holiday.
Ash cloud over Europe, damn the Earth's crust. God is not being kind to me, and I'm not talking only about the age of my Blackberry. In ten years time my B;ackberry will be a "classic", now it is of a vintage to show I am an executive hippie in an era of glam rock dial tones.
Nevertheless my Blackberry works and it is a Mobile casting its "Rescue Me" rays to Head Office to tell me what am I, what we are supposed to do, when to stay put, when to go home via car, train , planes and automoblies er sorry not planes. Prayer to God or Gods, whatever one thinks may work, prayers are relegated by a need to trot out pagan rituals to the Ash God. Changing religions is a possibility turning probability, all things being equal. Cigarette smokers producing ash in their cubicles under a ventilation system on 'Max'; whilst the rest of us cast our eyes at our fellow humans with their ciggy-stress-relief, they are demonised by association to ash. Ash is bad. Smoking kills, ash makes me stay in an airport lounge for possibly days. Ash is bad.
And by the luck of the the Irish third cousin removed, I am, we are crammed into a four-five-six hour journey by a trans-Europe train, where creature comforts are gladly forgone to be going home. Gladly forgone for the first hour, until my own sweat is smelt, my mate's sweat is smelt, the stranger's sweat is smelt and the petite lady's perspiration is winning the air wars with Chanel. My leg muscle is painful and the knee reminds me that I am getting old. Elbows are needed to mark out your turf. We, my holiday buddy, mark out our turf.
Business is business. Friends are friends in adversity.
Ash cloud over Europe, damn the Earth's crust. God is not being kind to me, and I'm not talking only about the age of my Blackberry. In ten years time my B;ackberry will be a "classic", now it is of a vintage to show I am an executive hippie in an era of glam rock dial tones.
Nevertheless my Blackberry works and it is a Mobile casting its "Rescue Me" rays to Head Office to tell me what am I, what we are supposed to do, when to stay put, when to go home via car, train , planes and automoblies er sorry not planes. Prayer to God or Gods, whatever one thinks may work, prayers are relegated by a need to trot out pagan rituals to the Ash God. Changing religions is a possibility turning probability, all things being equal. Cigarette smokers producing ash in their cubicles under a ventilation system on 'Max'; whilst the rest of us cast our eyes at our fellow humans with their ciggy-stress-relief, they are demonised by association to ash. Ash is bad. Smoking kills, ash makes me stay in an airport lounge for possibly days. Ash is bad.
And by the luck of the the Irish third cousin removed, I am, we are crammed into a four-five-six hour journey by a trans-Europe train, where creature comforts are gladly forgone to be going home. Gladly forgone for the first hour, until my own sweat is smelt, my mate's sweat is smelt, the stranger's sweat is smelt and the petite lady's perspiration is winning the air wars with Chanel. My leg muscle is painful and the knee reminds me that I am getting old. Elbows are needed to mark out your turf. We, my holiday buddy, mark out our turf.
Business is business. Friends are friends in adversity.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Comfort Zones
Planes, trains and automobiles and taxis and shanks pony and leaves on tracks.....and delays, so international travellers need to seize the moment, seize the delayed moment, the non-executive stress moment to chill. Chilling and airports may not be natural bedfellows but needs must. Executive business travellers morph the airport into a comfort zone preferably courtesy of silver, gold and platinum cards.
The VIP lounge, the free biscuits, newspaper, a sandwich and perhaps a bitter shandy. A chair that is soft on the executive behind. There is a thousand languages and here there is a mix of some dozen with a prevalence to the local tongue and English. Speaking English - the great advantage except at the Business Meeting when the Brit side of the table whisper their secrets whilst the other side spark off a diatribe of sounds each other in their own code, their own language brazenly proving their are better than us. Industrial strageies are divulged openly, compromises withdrawn in front of our faces, we tweek our ears and believe we understand an odd word that gives no clue. These meetings have no comfort zone.
The VIP lounge, the free biscuits, newspaper, a sandwich and perhaps a bitter shandy. A chair that is soft on the executive behind. There is a thousand languages and here there is a mix of some dozen with a prevalence to the local tongue and English. Speaking English - the great advantage except at the Business Meeting when the Brit side of the table whisper their secrets whilst the other side spark off a diatribe of sounds each other in their own code, their own language brazenly proving their are better than us. Industrial strageies are divulged openly, compromises withdrawn in front of our faces, we tweek our ears and believe we understand an odd word that gives no clue. These meetings have no comfort zone.
Friday, 2 April 2010
Eastern
Mayor or major - its the big Ex-pat question.
In the first ex-pat years I was the Grand Educator, if a correction was called for, I corrected....."I think my non-speaker-of-English colleague, when you said, er-her, "maJor" I think you meant, were referring to the local chief of community that we British call "Mare", spelt "MaY-or", its the beauty of the English language, my non-native friends". I learnt that my education was not always welcomed...some were happy in majoring in the universal tongue of making english simpler. They may or may not have wanted to thump me as their secret dream.
By some years later of ex-pat cultural integration of Shutting up, Bearing it and eating the Bumble Pie, my corrections of the natives minor errors was reduced to one German word "ostern" which roughly translates as 'Eastern', but this word was also the word in reference to and commemorates that holiday time of eggs and bunnies and March hares. So Fool as I am I broke the learning curve of those hard earned ex-pat years ~ The Great Educator returned ~ "My Deutsche friend when you said EasterN... I think..... if I may correct my ....my dear native speaking person trying gallantly to speak my mother tongue, er-hum...it is pronounced 'Easter with no N' ". I continue for the full, unadulterated full extent of me, myself, I effect.... "As in EasteR rhyming with ....with ...with feasteR...yes of course feaster is a word...... its a , thirteenth century tribute to king Henry, or Harry to the locals, ...look it up in Wiki."
And my foreign friend says to me "Is that why Joe calls you half-cut with or without an N".
I believe the natives have been taught a tad too well.
In the first ex-pat years I was the Grand Educator, if a correction was called for, I corrected....."I think my non-speaker-of-English colleague, when you said, er-her, "maJor" I think you meant, were referring to the local chief of community that we British call "Mare", spelt "MaY-or", its the beauty of the English language, my non-native friends". I learnt that my education was not always welcomed...some were happy in majoring in the universal tongue of making english simpler. They may or may not have wanted to thump me as their secret dream.
By some years later of ex-pat cultural integration of Shutting up, Bearing it and eating the Bumble Pie, my corrections of the natives minor errors was reduced to one German word "ostern" which roughly translates as 'Eastern', but this word was also the word in reference to and commemorates that holiday time of eggs and bunnies and March hares. So Fool as I am I broke the learning curve of those hard earned ex-pat years ~ The Great Educator returned ~ "My Deutsche friend when you said EasterN... I think..... if I may correct my ....my dear native speaking person trying gallantly to speak my mother tongue, er-hum...it is pronounced 'Easter with no N' ". I continue for the full, unadulterated full extent of me, myself, I effect.... "As in EasteR rhyming with ....with ...with feasteR...yes of course feaster is a word...... its a , thirteenth century tribute to king Henry, or Harry to the locals, ...look it up in Wiki."
And my foreign friend says to me "Is that why Joe calls you half-cut with or without an N".
I believe the natives have been taught a tad too well.
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