Let's go to the zoo!

Smiling monkeys are not friendly monkeys

I had some friends over visiting, and one of the touristy things that they mentioned they would like to do was a trip to the Singapore Zoo, which is famous world over.

As it was a weekday afternoon, there were very few people visiting, mainly traveling families, tour groups, and some Chinese tourists which proved more entertaining than the animals themselves. 

Overheard (in Mandarin):

Son: Daddy, what's that?
Dad: It's a lion!
Son: Daddy, can we eat lion?
Dad: No, we cannot eat lion.
Son: Daddy, can we eat giraffe?
Dad: No, we cannot eat giraffe.
Son: Daddy, can we eat tiger?
Dad: (pause) Well, we are not supposed to eat tiger anymore.

Also overheard in Mandarin at the crocodile enclosure:

Girl 1: Ooh, look at that HUGE crocodile! How many handbags would that make? 
Girl 2: Better to make shoes, more profit.

Overall, the visitors were well behaved, apart from a noisy group of Japanese teenagers, and an absolutely atrocious pair of German children whose parents had given up in the heat and looked decidedly miserable. 

Also, it's interesting to note the number of women who wear animal print in a trip to the zoo. [insert anthropological behaviour observation here].

On the despair of youth

There are so many things to write about in life, but somehow in the last 18 months life itself got in the way, and I left blogging to the verbose, and decided to try and convey experiences through the medium of 140 characters or less. 

Then, one evening, while drunkenly deciding to reorganise the study, I decided it was also time to weed through the boxes of stuff that I'd accumulated over the last 15 years. There were boxes of postcards, hoarded through drunken pub crawls in my youth. There were rolls of film and photographs back from the days when film still existed as a proper medium, and not some hipster reincarnation. Then, there was a jar of petrified wasabi, nicked from a night out with a friend during the kleptomaniac phase of (again, drunken) youth. During that same time, I'd also accumulated enough bulldog clips and other stationery cupboard paraphernalia to last me, and any new business, a lifetime and a half.

However, there was one box of memories that I hesitated on once the lid was lifted. Diaries of inane meeting notes, reams of coloured paper (also courtesy of the stationery cupboard), and a journal. This was, in hindsight, a pathetic attempt at a scrapbook. Stuck in it were receipts from travels, stubs from museums, and aspirational pencil sketches conveying the "artistic impressions" of my deluded self. This included a rendering of the Shanghai Pearl Tower, which looks like a skewer of meat balls, and an attempt of the Venus de Milo: if it was drawn by a 5 year old with no digits. Actually, a 5 year old with no digits would be better. My absolute shame remains the "freestyle" smudged sketch of Stonehenge which looks like it was built using twisty marshmallows and "artful" gothic script reminding myself of what it actually was meant to be. 

Note the pensive Snowman and "spirit" giving my younger self the side-eye. Also, I just realised that the dangly eye in the top right is actually supposed to be what Stonehenge would be like if the Chinese we're to hang talismans by it.

Said journal also contained a number of angst ridden entries, which reading through them made me cringe desperately. I want my current self to be able to tell my younger self that the future is much brighter than I had envisioned. I want to tell my younger self that frustration isn't exclusively mine to bear. I want to tell my younger self that my attempt at deep, meaningful poetry is best left to those who can actually write poetry. Most of all, I want to tell my younger self that love, once lost, will be found again. 

At this point, I could no longer shoulder the burden of all this angst anymore. I had to share it with someone. So, naturally I picked up the phone at 5 in the morning and dialed my best friend 12 timezones away on the other side of the world, knowing she'd be the one to understand all the emotions coursing through my veins at that moment (to be honest, it was because I knew she would be awake, and it was probably the whisky coursing through my veins, but that's beside the point).

She picked up, and I ranted. She, in turn, found some of her old journal entries, and together, we read them aloud to each other. We laughed, we sneered at our younger selves, then we made a promise to start blogging again. 

So, while I start combing through experiences to post anew, I leave you with my last entry in the journal. (Disclaimer: I am not responsible for you choking, gagging, or reacting in any way to the following paragraph)

"Dear XXX, sometimes it seems sensible to lay pen to paper and let flow all that is cooped up within. However, at these times things seem most unclear and I am in turmoil. From my work struggles to my relationships, nothing seems clear to be on their way to resolving themselves. [He] is unhappy, yet I cannot find the strength within me to champion what seems to him a lost cause. I am a jinx to those I love, and to those who are dear to me. Stem this flow of unhappiness, and unleash the positive vibes that exist there in the universe. Namaste."

Hasta la vista, Readers.

Beating the (so called) odds in ones life

Initially this post was going to be about bad music, and how it influences the younger, and current generation, by giving the wrong message, in all ways.

This however, is a post about something far worse. 

It is about violence at home.

Before I begin, let me preface the songs I wanted to showcase, all heard over the course of this summer on the radio, and we can all have a collective headshake in despair. This is however, no means a suggestion to ignore the enormity behind the intended message.

First up, a song about the state of the world and the generally perceived adolescent ignorance about responsibility:

There was a diatribe ready to go on the back of this ditty, but, as it turns out, the Google suggestion when I typed in "maxing out my..." (on the back of it being the only lyric I remembered), brought up "maxing out my 401k", which, as it turns out in my limited understanding of American government codes, is far worse than getting absolutely wasted on a joint composed of oregano which you'd just handed over your weeks worth of student loan for (that story may follow in another post).

Secondly, there is Social Media gone way beyond the call of merely "following" someone:

The video itself is hilarious from an anthropological viewpoint. We first heard it driving back from berry picking, and our initial reaction was, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?! After all, which of us hasn't been obsessed with the object of our (then) affections, wanting to be with them day and night, to want to be the one that the object of our affections finds the most satisfaction with? With social media, however, this pastime is now available to be done from the privacy under ones bed covers, while at the same time with the world knowing what one is doing, if indescretion is the weaker part of your valour, on said platform.

Prosteletysing warning: one generally gravitates towards the personality that complements our being, mostly without realising; that which balances us (without our knowledge), and the same one who does not indulge our neurotic behaviour, beyond necessity.

I digress, however. 

The song I wanted to preface this whole post with was a hit of the summer. Having lived in Switzerland for the last 7 years, one is used to the lag in pop culture and chart hits. When OH and I discovered Icona Pop 20 months ago, we were so excited to find we were actually ahead of the curve in our discovered 'coolness', when as we set out for our summer holiday in this summer of 2013, it was blaring across the continents. We were smug in our advanced mutual appreciation and discovery of the song that spoke to girls and women, empowering them to sing along and admit that they'd had enough of folding the socks and playing the docile pawn in the game of male/female relationships. However, while a catchy tune, we cannot vouch for the overall empowerment that the tune conveyed.

(Don't get me wrong, relationships are mirrored in every case, and in every situation.)

So, I come to the point I wanted to get to. More precisely, the song that sparked this all off:

There are a number of synopses out there on the suitability of the lyrics of this song, and the permission it deems to give young men in interacting with womenfolk: the language they use, or the message that is assumed to be conveyed in general. It also doesn't help that shortly after the song's release, it is documented that the singer himself would like to live by his lyrics, much to the the purposefully feigned ignorance of his so-called wife. Not to mention the fallout of Miley Cyrus' twerking to these lyrics, that frankly, make "One Two Buckle My Shoe" seem more instructive. 

Seriously, almost 90 years to the fight for women's liberation, and the spawn of the one having crooned "Achy Breaky Heart" is gyrating energetically to a tune that even her mother would have doubts over the positioning of where the party and business was meant to be. This, however, is not a post on the Junior Cyrus' misdemeanors. 

It is about the nuances of the lyrics to which she so energetically gyrated to.

Take one of the opening lines before the chorus, in mumbled delivery, to set the scene:

OK now he was close, tried to domesticate you
But you're an animal, baby, it's in your nature
Just let me liberate you
Hey, hey, hey
You don't need no papers
Hey, hey, hey
That man is not your maker

I do not need to explain further.

What prompted this post, is more a dissection of the existing, and, after effects of what an approximation of the perception of popular culture should be perpetuating, and that which continues to reinforce and contribute towards the positive aspect of interaction towards the young of humankind, rather than the expected collective overall, and the immediate reaction to the supposed intention of the above said lyrics. 

It is acceptable for men to call women that they are supposed to have conquered, in the universal term of endearment known as 'sluts', and pat each other on the back in congratulatory tones amongst the other members of the same sex, however with a woman's bitchy undertones of submission that is received in far from savoury language. Conversely, from a woman's perspective, the situation would be conveyed in hushed tones of admiration for stature/penis size/general disdain/arrogance that the man would generally be exhibiting in their primal dance in establishing their Alpha status.

Glaringly, the explanation would be that the difference is that men, for the most part, only think for the moment, and women react accordingly. That often-times men think ahead, in a male-centric 'action/reaction' format, rather than a female-centric 'action/reaction/after-action' parallel. 

It is the former which is cyclical and cultivates the ongoing imbalanced accepted culture of men vs. women: where men feel they are entitled to have, and own, women, and at the same time, exhibiting or mimicking the demeaning and backward behaviour that is deemed acceptable to use towards members of the fairer (not opposite, mind you) sex, as suggested by pop culture as highlighted.

Take, for example, the ongoing videos filling the time slots on an otherwise defunct channel called MTV. I'd like to think that the images have run out now, and we are stuck solely with the aural cyclical regurgitation from the graveyard of said songs on the Singaporean radio stations.

Again, I digress. 

The point is worse still: it is because of these multiple perpetuations, that are deemed acceptable by the mainstream media editors, and therefore is perceived as suitable for society overall, and generally unquestioned by women. This, on average, translates to a twice weekly (without a fixed schedule) event. 

I hear the distinct sounds of domestic violence: glass smashing, screaming, crying, black eyes shielded from sight in the common lift.

All from the apartment below mine.

The reason for these interactions? I will quote verbatim: "You're a nothing whore that came here because I brought you in", "You are here because I brought you here". What, pray, is the independence this woman able to look forward to?

The irony? He's not even of the region. He's 6'2" and white. She's 5' nothing. And Asian. Who hears the screams of the underclass, though?

After a number of incidents, I finally took the courage to ask OH about the right course of action. After procrastinating over yet another couple of incidents, I finally asked my father for the correct legal approach, and how it would affect my ongoing standing and situation if I were to report such an event. 

The message was clear: Such behaviour cannot be ignored.

Dear readers, I was once a victim of such violence (yes, it happens in gay relationships too), and while majority of the cases are generally waved away by virtue of the influence of alcohol/stress/generalities etc., the bottom line is that it is frankly, unacceptable: a travesty, and an affront to the evolution of humankind. I, personally,  was strong enough to call an end to said relationship, (decision taken after a rescue on Waterloo Bridge by David Hasslehoff, to be told in a separate post). Overall, it is documented that around 22.1% of women, and 7.4% of men alone in the US are subject to such treatment on a regular basis. Generally, such events take place at home, and the results are carefully hidden behind suitable coverings: long sleeves, long trousers, hats, sunglasses, and other attire appropriated to shield us from the elements of weather. 

Not those inflicted by fellow humans.

Furthermore, having embarked on (and decided it was too inane, and thus stopped watching) the HBO serialisation of the novel bestseller series of A Game of Thrones, this does not do any more to give women the impression of empowerment, that being on top, sexually, and grinding down on a penis, would ultimately give one control over the overall situation in general. Fucking television.

I do not know how to carry this thread to a suitable conclusion, because, as one knows, there isn't a  suitable conclusion. I am re-opening up a Pandora's box for discussion, but ultimately, that box has been opened millenia ago, without anyone taking charge and trying to wrench the lid shut. 

Nowadays, women may think they have liberation and a platform for voicing out dissent, but at the end of the day, these women only represent a small number of a fraction of the total who are suffering in silence. 

My point is, as well as straight relationships, there are instances where gay men, women, and all under the LGBT rainbow flag have similar problems. However, these minorities are less likely to admit the suffering they face, for fear of the ongoing perpetuation of LGBT negative stereotyping.

I could go on with regards to the situation that other people are subject to, but, in the end, if one can pick up on sounds of adult discontent, what parallels can we draw, even if it were only sounds of a child crying out in anguish of an event which we could not see?

En fin du jour, this is about the general empowerment we owe to ourselves, and to have the strength in saying: enough.

Good Night.

I will go to bed tonight, however, with the knowledge that someone, somewhere, is not going to be able to say "Good Night". 

Please, if you know of someone, or yourself, in a domestic situation, call someone before you, or they, get hurt. 

Forever. 

Can or not, lah?

Less than a fortnight fresh off the boat, OH and I have started to notice a number of things in Singapore, some of which are quite amusing, and some which, quite frankly, frustrates the hell out of one. The following are a few first observations:

-       Singapore has a love affair with plastic bags. Every shop, stall, outlet you go to, they seem to delight in double, nay, triple bagging for that 2oz bottle of soy sauce you just bought.  Everything else should be bagged individually. Having for years brought my own bags to the supermarket, the cashiers cannot process not putting things into plastic bags, to the point of them bagging up stuff to put into my canvas bag.

-       “I go check”. This is the stock response to almost everything. “Does this come in a different size?” ‘I go check.’; “Does your mother work here?” ‘I go check’; “Does my bum look big in this?” (giggle) ‘I go check’; “What’s your name?” (PANIC) ‘I go check’.

-       Substitutions in restaurants are unheard of, and can often lead to you and your waiter sobbing and rocking in the corner, both reduced to gibbering wrecks. You, over the simple incomprehension why you cannot have a salad substitution, and the waiter because the binary system does not allow for the“IF” command. Americans, go home right now.

-       Japanese/Korean culture. All the girls seem to want to look like Manga dolls, with pinched faces, large vacant eyes, and a permanent expression like they’ve sat on a cucumber. Also, if you are adverse to Hello Kitty, this is not the country for you.

-       Queuing for free stuff. Admittedly I have been guilty of this trait, queuing to find that I’m being given free tampons, or baby rusks. Here, however, I noticed a long snaking queue for free sugar samples. You might as well hand out free toothpicks for amusement.

So, there it is, the first installation of observations of life in a different country. We will return soon with more quirks, so, stay tuned!

On going to the food hall

HOMOSIMIAN WALKS INTO A STORE AND TAKES ESCALATOR DOWN TO FOOD HALL

BUNCH OF LOVELY GREEN LEAVES AT BOTTOM OF ESCALATOR, ORANGES, AND OTHER LOVELY STUFF

 HOMOSIMIAN (HS) THOUGHT BUBBLE: *LIGHTBULB MOMENT* I WOULD REALLY FANCY SOME SOUP FOR DINNER. HOW ABOUT THAT CHORIZO AND KALE SOUP THAT I'VE MADE A FEW TIMES? MAYBE I SHOULD SEE IF THEY HAVE CAVALO NERO!




HS: Do you have cavalo nero (sees dark leaved veg that could be cavalo nero at the back of the veg stand)

Woman1: What is cavalo nero?

HS: Its known as black cabbage. It looks like Savoy cabbage but has big, dark green leaves.

Woman2: That is not cabbage (pointing at dark leaves). That is spinach.

HS: No, I know that is spin-

W1: Is this cavalo nero? (picks us celery)

HS: No, but-

W2: Spinach isn't cabbage. (points at spinach)

HS: I know, but th-

W1: Is this cavalo nero? (picks up artichoke)

HS: No, bu-

W2: You actually want broccolli rabe (points at broccolli rabe)

HS: Not really, its a type of g-

W1: cavalo nero? (thrusts asparagus at me)

HS: No! It's actua-

W2: You want thyme.

HS: Erm, no, bu-

W1: Here is cavalo nero! (gives me thyme)

HS: No! I don't want thyme, it looks like chard, but wrinkly, and dark....

W1: Here, cavalo nero! (thrusts chard at me)

HS: N-

W2: You want something green?

HS: Yes, but, I wa-

W1: Cavalo nero! (proffers spinach)



HS: That is spinach...

W2: Yes, we told you that is spinach. 

W1: H (holds up beets, hopefully) cavalo nero?

HS: No, no, no, I'll take the broccolli rabe instead, please.

W2 to W1: (in conspirational manner) I told you he wanted this but he didn't realise.

W1: Voilà, CAVALO NERO!! (hands me weighed bag of broccolli rabe).

HS: ... Thanks! (looks nonplussed)

Revenge is a dish...

“After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations.” 
- Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance

 While I am fond, and inclined to agree with a number of Mr. Wilde's quotes, I would hazard an addendum to the above: "unless one is confronted with a disagreeable countenance in the form of a dreadful service staff."

Last week I was out with a group of friends, at a dinner which had been organised for a few months. This restaurant happened to be of a newish nature, located on the top floor of the city's tallest building, although at 37 floors, the aspirations in its name alluding to its lofty position, Clouds, was somewhat laughable, and ironically Napoleonic as the views stared out towards the looming Alps. However, I may be somewhat unkind given that evening, everything was swathed in fog, essentially living up to its moniker.

I digress. 

Perhaps it was because I was jetlagged, having just stepped off a 12 hour flight, but the first irritation started when I ordered a Gin Martini, and was rebuked by the waiter. I recall his exact words to be, "Well, a martini is always gin, unless you order a vodkatini which would be vodka." The unceremonious laying down of the plates for each course also irritated me. However the crowning moment was when the coat check girl told me to Fuck Off because I'd asked her more than twice for my umbrella, which she clearly couldn't be bothered to look for. Her colleague, embarrassed for her, managed to find the offensive item and blushed as she thrust it at me. If looks could kill, I would be in prison now. 

In this building also sits a bar, The Rivington Hotel Bar, which a year ago OH and I were unceremoniously asked to leave by the, frankly, useless, barman. There is a story this which involves Old Fashioneds, and the surprise element of being served 3 totally different drinks of the same name in succession by the same barman. As the last order was slammed down in front of me, with a high soda water to bourbon ratio, and what looked like a wedge of lemon squeezed into the highball, I rolled my eyes. OH saw my reaction and burst out laughing, and shortly the barman told us to leave if we didn't like it there. I was totally gobsmacked and rendered speechless at the audacity of the barman. Moreover, being berated due to the inability of his bartending skills and the massive chip on his shoulder, left the aftertaste of bile bitters and OH and I have since not returned. 

Other notable dining outings include the meal at Scotts in London when it was newly opened, and we were rushed through our meal to make way for an additional sitting, and the dim sum waitress who practically threw our change at us.

I'm sure there will be other memorable dining events, but instead of suffering in silence, English style, I now plan to name and shame each establishment. If you dish it out, you should expect a serving in return.

 

Its the most wonderful time...

And suddenly its that time of the year where everything is all wintery and the streets are crammed with people armed with bags and bags of presents as well as even more determination, pushing past others trying to reach for that last object that would complete the list for the year.

OH and I have taken a pretty relaxed approach to shopping for each other. Internet shopping has made things so much easier, and we can order in advance and have things delivered to the in-laws, all wrapped up so we don't even have to make much of an effort, apart from last weekend when we went shopping for Christmas baubles, and Secret Santa presents for a lunch we were hosting the next day.

The premise was simple: each person would buy 2 gifts of 10 francs each, then there would be a ballot, and then each corresponding number would be given to the person who held said number. Simple! Although, the reality went along the lines of something more like this:

"Draw lots, determine order of person, open a present, then either open another present but then you could 'steal' someone else's present. Said present can only be stolen a maximum of 3 times, and it can be stolen back, but not in the proceeding round. Next person can 'steal' the previous person's present, and the previous person would then have the option to open another present, or wait the next round to open 2."

For my part, I paid scant attention and just kept refilling my glass of wine, lamenting the 2 expensive baubles I suspect OH had broken deliberately because of the Swarovski crystals on them. For not paying attention, I ended up with a pen with a naked man, some magnets and some pretty cool ice shot glasses. OH ended up with some delicious chocolates which everyone finished before the game was over.

The aftermath of that Christmas lunch is still reliving itself through random discoveries of an empty glass here, a greasy tray there. Hopefully, when we go away, the fairy on the top of the tree will wave her wand and make it all disappear. Or, since we couldn't find a fairy, and all Swiss top of the tree ornaments look like minaret covers (ironically), another fairy will be certain to be doing it instead.

Merry Christmas you jolly lot.

On micro-scooters

I remember back in 2000 these micro-scooters became all the craze in London. My ex boyfriend suggested that he get one and wheel around on it in the city to get to work so as to be environmentally friendly. That he lived on a hill and would only have to roll down seemed like quite an easy way to get places until I pointed out that he would have to hunch over to grab the handles, and having to lug the thing back up the hill would soon see the contraption consigned to the back of the closet.

A year later, the micro-scooter reached a new pinnacle of cool when it was immortalized in Zoolander as used by Hansel (he's so hot right now). There is a scene where he kicks off on his micro-scooter, and somehow when dismounting manages to snap the whole thing together and slung on his back in one cool, deft movement. Cue: a legion of copycats, few who succeeded, even more failing and breaking fingers, sustaining bruises, taking out anyone in a 30m radius, and generally looking like twats in the process. Thus, the micro-scooter gradually disappeared from the streets of London.

Fast forward to 2007. I arrive in Geneva, and see a whole new legion of micro-scooter users. These range from the children all the way to the 74 year old granny who scooted into the post office on one. I discussed this with OH at the beginning who confidently told me that the Swiss were a bit behind in some trends and fads, and we would soon see the back of these pavement menaces. I sincerely hoped so as it seemed to be an infestation of micro-scooters everywhere, rolling through the parks, by the lake, down the hills, across dog-shit. Even the clientele using these seemed to encompass the whole section of society, from hookers jumping onto one to race after a potential client, to bankers stepping onto one impassively to get to a meeting. It seemed an unstoppable craze.

Now, 4 years later and I'm in Zurich. The micro-scooters are still going strong. There are shops that dedicate themselves to selling these contraptions, as well as a variety of accessories to go along with them. Hot men turn into idiots in my eyes as soon as I see them clutching onto one, elegant women just look stupid in their Louboutins, on a micro-scooter.

Maybe we need a re-release of Zoolander, or a movie that has such cool micro-scooter tricks that will shame anyone owning a scooter to quietly leave them in their basement and carry on as nature intended, to walk.

Oh, wait a minute, there was a movie with some micro-scooters that perfectly describes the legions of micro-scooter fans: Jackass.

Carnivale!

Every year, on the 11th of November, at 11:11 in the morning, the whole world comes to a standstill, and a two minute silence is observed in respect for those who lost their lives in the Second World War. The Swiss chose this moment to begin their Fastnacht celebrations, culminating in multiple parades and street parties to mark the beginning of Lent at the end of winter.

Normally a restrained and discreet people, these celebrations are an excuse to drink on the streets, greet everyone and dress up in gay colours and to get up to mischief, safe in the knowledge that you're hiding behind that macabre mask, intending to 'scare' the winter away.

How to solve a problem...

SCENE: Downstairs hallway, by the shoerack

MARMOSET (M) AND OH (OH) ENTER, DOWN THE STAIRS

M: Oh dear, we do need to get a new wardrobe so we can store all these shoes

OH: Well, why don't you give some away to charity?

M: I've given a load away already, nothing more I want to shed at this moment.

OH: How about those? I've not seen you wear them.

M: That's because I just bought those.

OH: Oh, okay, how about those?

M: The brown ones? Oh, they're actually red. All this dust...

OH: My point exactly.

M: We're getting new wardrobes.

M AND OH EXIT THROUGH THE DOOR.

Being good, Swiss style

The Christmas season is upon us, with resolutions being made to eat less after the big event, and various other good intentions to follow, the New Year being the time to implement them all. While adults have a very strong resolve to follow them but then inadvertently fail, children are spared this self-introspection and personal improvement.

The Swiss*, however, have very different ideas.

My boss has 2 children under the age of 5. The have been invited to a St. Nicolas' Day party with the following instructions to the parents:

'Each child should be provided with a present, wrapped, and their name clearly printed on the parcel to facillitate ease of St Nicolas giving away said presents to the right child.

'Along with this, each parent should provide 2 positive comments, and 2 negative comments about the child on a slip of paper to accompany said present, in order for St Nicolas to declare before the audience, the strengths and foibles of each child.

'For example, the positive statement could be "Mary, you're very good at playing with your little brother so he doesn't cry." The negative, can focus on something such as "Mary, you shouldn't wet your bed."

'We look forward to a celebration this weekend, and don't forget the instructions.'

Now, this would seem sensible at first glance, but upon further dissection, my boss made the following comment:

"It's all very well having an appraisal when you're at work, but my kids are so fucking young, and screwing with their heads with some authoritarian figure they've never met is really, putting it nicely, a mindfuck."

That, has been the funniest thing I've heard all week, in complete context.

I remember something similar when I was 5, and St Nicolas sat me on his lap (back in the days when this was still normal) and told me that I was very good helping mummy with the housework (positive comment) and that I should stop crying because daddy had left (negative comment). I'm only thankful that I'm not in jail today.

And therefore, I believe, is how to fuck up your child. I'm totally going to try that one day.


* DISCLAIMER: This might actually be more from an overbearing mother figure than the actual Swiss, but I'm going with it.

Flies, Pomegranates and Peaks

This is where OH and I have just been:



I can't even begin to describe how amazing this place is. It is really something that has to be experienced personally. The ancient city itself is vast, and all hewn out of rock which is an absolute work of engineering genius. the surrounding cliffs and walls of the hills and mountains lend to an illusion that everything was covered in carvings, and then you catch sight of a worn out Corinthian pedestal, and some cornicing that fades into another worn piece of rock, then you're not quite sure again.

If you encounter gung-ho Yanks telling you where to go, don't follow their advice if you're not sure or not one for hair-raising adventures. OH and I thought it would be a good idea to go off the beaten track, and found ourselves scaling a set of stairs up to the top of a 12th century fortress, and the last time the stairs were used probably dated from then as well. After getting to the top and enjoying the sublime views, we panicked when all the probable paths down led to sheer drops off the cliff faces. Finally, after taking a Panoramic Pee (tm), we screwed on our adventurers heads and followed the ghost of other footprints, and finally found the way down via some sensible stairs.

This is another wonderful experience:



Stepping into the Dead Sea, the density forces your feet up from beneath you and all you can do is float on your front, or on your back. Lie back and enjoy the sensation of not having to exert yourself, and float with wild abandon. Mind the drift though, you may inadvertantly end up drifting over to Israel, and cause a diplomtic incident. As OH pointed out, if you get shot, the salinity would cause the wound to hurt like fuck.

The constant evaporation of water from the surface creates a wonderful haze that dampens sound all around you, as well as filters out harmful UVB rays. This means you tan without burning, which is fantastic. The mud from the seabed which you can slather on and washed off in the sea makes your skin as smooth as a baby's bottom.

The low season allows for a completely deserted experience, as no one else is around. We had 30 staff waiting on us at the Dead Sea resort. The one drawback are the multitudes of flies that are around during the day, but mysteriously disappear before sundown, so dining al fresco in the evening is thoroughly pleasant.

And for pomegranates? They are delicious with most things, especially baba ganoush and as a late night snack.

*wink*

Next destination, eh?

Taking a break. Flying to Vancouver, but going via London and meeting OH at the check in counter. Apart from the small suitcase, I'm also carting a large bag full of stuff for my sisters that includes my body weight in chocolate, cheese and salami, eh?

Very much looking forward to the break, the food, and being 9 hours away timezone-wise which automatically means I won't be able to contribute much, work wise. But, I'm happy with that, eh?

In the meantime, you'll have to put up with the linguistic twitch, eh? Until I'm back via Brussels, then it would be all normal again, une fois?

As we like it...

So, after 3 pints of beer for a colleague's pre-birthday drinks, I evade the secretary and jump in a cab. As I'm gathering my groceries that have fallen on the floor of the cab, I try to remember what to say bet the taxi is already moving.

"Erm, bitte shoene..."

"Ja, wohnen du ab Am Wasser?"

"Erm, ja, danke..."

Wait... The cab driver knows where I live?

And that is how I know I take too many taxis.

in Switzerland.

Bi-wine curious

After almost a year of radio silence I am back once again. Somehow I
managed to lose focus on priorities in life and let myself be
overwhelmed by the career.

This, in itself, shouldn't have been the case given the constant promotion of the elusive work-life balance. However, in my defense, I was doing a 9 man job and at the end of the day was just too exhausted to even turn on the TV, let alone the laptop to type in a blog entry. Things have now improved, and instead of a 9-man job, I'm on a 4-man job and managing 5 others.

Managing people is somewhat akin to having internal arguments with your subconscious. Sometimes things well up and you want to shout, but you can't, so you take a step back and try to reason with your not-conscious. However, unlike with your subconscious, the worst case scenario you think of then proceeds to act itself out in front of your very eyes.

A recent trip to New York unearthed some absolute gems of overheard conversation, which really had to be heard in person to be believed:

Boy1: I really really like wine

Boy2: yeah, I really like a full bodied red.

Boy3: (hesitatingly) I like wine too, but if you really REALLY like wine, can you like both red and white?

Later...

Boy 2: whites are good, but I only like really dry whites. Like a good chardonnay. Not a riesling though, its not dry enough.

Later, after more fuckery in a similar vein, OH and I left following a conversation involving the new word 'superiocity'.

More to come, and by god its good to be back...

Life, but not as we know it.

Back after a brief hiatus.

3.5 months into life in a new city and I'm pretty much loving it. I moved out of the hotel that's a dump, into a serviced apartment for a month then into a shared penthouse which is both fabulously spacious, and wonderfully central. I walk to work in 7 minutes. On the weekends I head back to Geneva to do my laundry, drop of my shirts to be ironed, and to see OH.

Zurich is a wonderfully cosmopolitan city, and it's nice to have a change of scenery. I've made a few friends and found some great places to hang out. Some observations:

- Zurich is not as conservative as Geneva, but they do love their church bells to ring through the night. Every 15 mins.
- There are approximately 150 types of sausages available in various establishments. Yesterday I had a tasting platter of sausages. 4 were white, 4 were pink, and 1 was red. The red one was spicy.
- People on holiday tend to lose their inhibitions. This I can tell by the view we get from our office into the rooms of the cheap hotel next door.
- I find myself getting too Swiss in some behaviours. I was laughed at in Paris for waiting until the lights turned green before I crossed the road. I caught myself waiting for the lights to turn green, along with another man. It was almost midnight, and the roads were empty. Nonetheless we still stood there and waited.
- Rösti done well is delicious. Rösti from a pack from the supermarket needs to be nuked before it is delicious.
- Swimming in the lake is wonderful. Its like swimming in a vat of chilled Evian. Even if you gulp some of the water while diving in it doesn't matter. Much.
- Speeding down the lake in a boat with opera blaring is fantastic. Just like Priscilla, Queen of the Lakes, although its not got such a nice ring to it.
- There are lots of hot boys here. LOTS
- There are lots of hot girls here too. Not my cup of tea though.
- Lederhosen is real. Lederhosen is also compulsory for each of the bands that play in the bierhalle down the road from where I work.
- Alpine horns are a lot more mellow than I thought they would be. Very soothing. Move over pan pipes.
- Swiss weather operates in microclimes. Geneva can be hot and summery. Zurich, meanwhile, will be having torrential hail.

More to come.

Out of Office

Permanently.

So, I send round an email the day I resign informing everyone that I will no longer be on my work email, and for all personal emails to be directed to my personal email address.

Some people do, but the majority of the others just hit the reply button and reply to my work email.

This pisses me off.