I hate those couple of hours spent at foreign airport terminals before the boarding call.
It not only means I have oodles of time to kill thanks to hotel front desk staff who insist you leave four hours before your flight - time that's often spent unnecessarily spent at the Duty Free - but I also dreading going home.
Not that this trip's been all fun & games. Quite the contrary, if you've been reading up. And I miss my lady somethin' fierce, and can't wait to see her when I arrive in San Francisco.
But there's always the spectre of returning to the U.S. of A. I hate the feeling of dread knowing that in roughly 11 hours, I'll be greeted by some of the most unprofessional, uncouth immigration officers this side of the former Soviet Union. I sit here knowing that in half a day, I'll be completely incensed by the impatient, ill-mannered bastards who don't know how to stand around a baggage carrousel. And I can feel my sphincter tighten at the prospect of hearing nothing but "Presidential" this and "primary" that and "delegates" whoozawatsits for the next ten months.
If home is where the heart is, then I have one very hardened heart. (Probably more so now with last night's foie gras flowing through my bloodstream.) It's tough being in other countries and experiencing life at a different pace, with different values, and with a different perspective, only to come home to things to realize that all the people you love are surround by things you're starting to hate.
Don't get me wrong - I'm not some America-hater. But with every little footstep on foreign soil, I hate more and more what America's becoming. Impolite. Arrogant. Paranoid. I take criticism decently, so I don't feel offended by how my people and my country are handled by the foreign media. By taking a step back, I can see the ridicule heaped upon our once-great nation for championing liberty and democracy while leaning toward oligarchy and theocracy.
This isn't to say that Europe is perfect. France elected some Bush-lovin' righty in their most recent presidential election, and the previous president had to have a run-off with a freakin' Nazi. But in day to day life, everything is still imbued with a sense of politesse, that life is more than your job or your political party or your stock portfolio. That it matters more how your steak is cooked than which kook you voted for. That it matters more that you say "bonjour" to everyone you see than to call in the TIPS line because they look a bit dark.
Oh well - the grass is always greener on the other side. I should be thankful that I'm coming home to a wonderful woman, a loving family, awesome friends, great co-workers, and the best fucking city in all of America*. For whatever that's worth.
---
*San Francisco, for all you misinformed people who thought your hometown is better.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
I Repeat, This Is NOT a Vacation
Sure, this trip has all the hallmarks of a vacation.
An all-expense paid trip to Paris, the luxury of WiFi, the feeling of pride when I successfully communicate in a foreign language...
But once again, it was nearly an 11-hour day in the office.
Sure, I got to take another leisurely lunch, this time finally going in for the kill on a plate of steak frites, washed down with a bottle of Badoit and some warm chocolate cake bathing in creme anglaise. And don't forget the obligatory coffee.
That may sound extravagant, but such fuel is a necessary evil. Meetings. Punctuated by a protracted product launch. More meetings.... get the picture? This is work, people! If you told me before this trip, "Have fun in Paris," and caught me rolling my eyes, surely now you can kind of sympathize.
I actually did make it out before 8:00 pm, in time to get to the pharmacy to pick up one of those wondrous only-in-Europe ointments for my mom. You know, the kind the FDA won't approve because it'd rip the bottom out of the market for the major players.
And that was about the highlight of my night. I got back to my hotel in time to put some mild fires out on the homefront, exchanging instant messages, shooting off emails, and updating servers like a madman. A product launch is a horrible time to be away from the desk. But things eventually calmed down, and my boss urged me via IM to try out the restaurant he'd recommended.
A Bonne Table. About 10-15 minutes' walk away, this place has anachronistic maritime decor - part old schooner, part ultralight yacht. I politely asked the lovely hostess/waitress/busser if it's ok to dine alone. My last trip having been to Japan, that's the norm. She looked at me like I was crazy for asking such a thing, but politely replied with, "Mais bien sur!" Or - "Of course we're willing to take your money, you poor bastard from a country whose economy is in recession, thus making any meal short of a kebab about equal to half a week's salary."
I sat down and made my selections, and the hostess recommended a delightfully smokey Saint-Véran. I sipped on it delicately as I ate my amuse-bouche of fried salted-cod potatoes, feeling extra self-conscious because I was dining solo. When you dine alone, it feels like everyone's eyes are on you. In fact, one of the other diners in the restaurant kept looking over at my table, wondering if my dining companion would ever show up. But who cares when you're eating little morsels of deep-fried fish-n-potato when they're being washed down with such an incredible wine? My appetizer sealed the deal, though - foie gras imbued with langoustine tails. It was a combo I'd never even imagined, and each forkful was made extra special with the variety of garnishes, each bringing out a different dimension of the fattened duck liver and mini-lobster tails before me.
I could hear my main course sizzling on the grill as - BZZZT BZZZT - my phone vibrated. It was the office. No matter. I'm in the middle of dinner. They can wait. BZZZT BZZZT. One new message. Whatever. BZZZT BZZZT. Incoming call - the office. I glanced up at the waitress and politely excused myself to the front vestibule.
"Hello. What's up?"
It was one of my coworkers.
"I think something's wrong with the installers."
"Umm, what? I'm in the middle of dinner here, but I'll be done soon. I can be back at the hotel pretty quickly."
*sound of the phone being handed off*
"Omid - we've got some customers screaming. Please get back to the hotel now!"
So much for my boss telling me to go to his favorite restaurant in this neck of the woods...
The waitress was kind enough to box up my dinner (amazing in a country where doggy bags are a sin punishable by flogging), and even put a plastic stopper in the remainder of my bottle of wine.
I felt so tacky. So gauche. So... American. I apologized for my sudden need to leave.
She apologized for my need to work.
So I've been back at my hotel, scrambling to see what's wrong, and things are calming down. In the meantime, I've eaten my dinner out of a box and drank my wine out of a tiny plastic cup. And the scary thing is - it's still really, really, amazingly good. The scallops are seared to perfection. The mashed artichoke hearts and fried artichoke leaves are like something from another planet. Planet Ecstasy. And I needed this wine now more than ever.
Somehow, despite consuming it out of plastic and skipping out on a proper dessert and coffee, I had a fantastic meal. One worthy of tonight's megadose of stress.
I need to get to bed now. I have to wake up at 6:00, catch a cab by 6:45, and be at the airport by 8:00. Luckily, there are no scheduled strikes. But traffic on the Périphérique can be a bitch, so I have to start at an ungodly hour.
Unfortunately, I may not be able to sleep. I just caught the story about Mike Huckabee wanting to put more God in the US Constitution. Hell no!!!! I'm gonna pray he can't do it. And yes, I realize the irony of that statement.
Thank you, good night, and God Bless... fancy French food.
An all-expense paid trip to Paris, the luxury of WiFi, the feeling of pride when I successfully communicate in a foreign language...
But once again, it was nearly an 11-hour day in the office.
Sure, I got to take another leisurely lunch, this time finally going in for the kill on a plate of steak frites, washed down with a bottle of Badoit and some warm chocolate cake bathing in creme anglaise. And don't forget the obligatory coffee.
That may sound extravagant, but such fuel is a necessary evil. Meetings. Punctuated by a protracted product launch. More meetings.... get the picture? This is work, people! If you told me before this trip, "Have fun in Paris," and caught me rolling my eyes, surely now you can kind of sympathize.
I actually did make it out before 8:00 pm, in time to get to the pharmacy to pick up one of those wondrous only-in-Europe ointments for my mom. You know, the kind the FDA won't approve because it'd rip the bottom out of the market for the major players.
And that was about the highlight of my night. I got back to my hotel in time to put some mild fires out on the homefront, exchanging instant messages, shooting off emails, and updating servers like a madman. A product launch is a horrible time to be away from the desk. But things eventually calmed down, and my boss urged me via IM to try out the restaurant he'd recommended.
A Bonne Table. About 10-15 minutes' walk away, this place has anachronistic maritime decor - part old schooner, part ultralight yacht. I politely asked the lovely hostess/waitress/busser if it's ok to dine alone. My last trip having been to Japan, that's the norm. She looked at me like I was crazy for asking such a thing, but politely replied with, "Mais bien sur!" Or - "Of course we're willing to take your money, you poor bastard from a country whose economy is in recession, thus making any meal short of a kebab about equal to half a week's salary."
I sat down and made my selections, and the hostess recommended a delightfully smokey Saint-Véran. I sipped on it delicately as I ate my amuse-bouche of fried salted-cod potatoes, feeling extra self-conscious because I was dining solo. When you dine alone, it feels like everyone's eyes are on you. In fact, one of the other diners in the restaurant kept looking over at my table, wondering if my dining companion would ever show up. But who cares when you're eating little morsels of deep-fried fish-n-potato when they're being washed down with such an incredible wine? My appetizer sealed the deal, though - foie gras imbued with langoustine tails. It was a combo I'd never even imagined, and each forkful was made extra special with the variety of garnishes, each bringing out a different dimension of the fattened duck liver and mini-lobster tails before me.
I could hear my main course sizzling on the grill as - BZZZT BZZZT - my phone vibrated. It was the office. No matter. I'm in the middle of dinner. They can wait. BZZZT BZZZT. One new message. Whatever. BZZZT BZZZT. Incoming call - the office. I glanced up at the waitress and politely excused myself to the front vestibule.
"Hello. What's up?"
It was one of my coworkers.
"I think something's wrong with the installers."
"Umm, what? I'm in the middle of dinner here, but I'll be done soon. I can be back at the hotel pretty quickly."
*sound of the phone being handed off*
"Omid - we've got some customers screaming. Please get back to the hotel now!"
So much for my boss telling me to go to his favorite restaurant in this neck of the woods...
The waitress was kind enough to box up my dinner (amazing in a country where doggy bags are a sin punishable by flogging), and even put a plastic stopper in the remainder of my bottle of wine.
I felt so tacky. So gauche. So... American. I apologized for my sudden need to leave.
She apologized for my need to work.
So I've been back at my hotel, scrambling to see what's wrong, and things are calming down. In the meantime, I've eaten my dinner out of a box and drank my wine out of a tiny plastic cup. And the scary thing is - it's still really, really, amazingly good. The scallops are seared to perfection. The mashed artichoke hearts and fried artichoke leaves are like something from another planet. Planet Ecstasy. And I needed this wine now more than ever.
Somehow, despite consuming it out of plastic and skipping out on a proper dessert and coffee, I had a fantastic meal. One worthy of tonight's megadose of stress.
I need to get to bed now. I have to wake up at 6:00, catch a cab by 6:45, and be at the airport by 8:00. Luckily, there are no scheduled strikes. But traffic on the Périphérique can be a bitch, so I have to start at an ungodly hour.
Unfortunately, I may not be able to sleep. I just caught the story about Mike Huckabee wanting to put more God in the US Constitution. Hell no!!!! I'm gonna pray he can't do it. And yes, I realize the irony of that statement.
Thank you, good night, and God Bless... fancy French food.
Monday, January 14, 2008
A Hard Day's Night
I should be sleeping like a log...
Actually, I will be soon. I didn't sleep all that well last night, largely due to the fact that I cranked the heater too much - this room's great at retaining heat. But it was too damn cold outside to open the windows and air it out. All groggy, I snoozed through my THREE freakin' alarms and ended up getting up an hour later than planned.
But I was motivated.
'Cuz dammit, there was more of that yogurt to be had down in the salle de petit dejeuner. Despite being on the verge of being late for my day at the Mothership, I sat and savored it. And the office is so close, I made it in at exactly 9:00 anyway. Note to self: set the alarm a bit later tonight.
I'm glad I had a good feed in the morning, because I was at the office until 8:00. As in P.M.
Whatever you've heard about the 35-hour work week in France, my company obviously hasn't heard of it. Either that or they only work three days a week. It struck me when I was told that I had one of my meetings scheduled at 6:00 that this is definitely a business trip.
But I have to say, the French know how to do business. When you're in meetings for an ungodly amount of time, languishing over a long lunch is fully justified. We hopped down to the local bistro (known as the official restaurant of my company's executive management - a handful of others showed up there) where I shared a charcuterie platter with our new marketing honcho. Next thing I knew, my mouth was full of tongue.
Umm, that'd be braised beef tongue. Opting yet again out of my usual steak frites, I went instead with the other special of the day: a French kiss from a bovine. Served up in an awesomely meaty gravy and a side of pureed potatoes, it was the perfect, hearty fuel for a cold day full of meetings.
Our Paris office is remarkably different than back in the Bay Area. Most notably in how quiet it is. While we spend a lot of time joking around and cranking silly songs, people have got their noses buried in their work here. Of course, here they take two hour lunches and 364 days of vacation and/or strike time. In the end, we all get our work done.
Of course, 8:00 didn't mark the end of the work day. Back at my hotel, I decided to check in with the office back home - as it's still early in the day there - and had more work to do. So once again, my chances at a decent dinner went up in smoke. Or up in a cup of convenience-store chocolate pudding I'd kept chilling on the windowsill. I tried once again to forage up some dinner at a late hour, but this is the suburbs, where fluorescent lighting and cheap formica tables rule. And at our horrendous exchange rate, I'm not about to pony up $30 for an Applebee's-level experience.
Yeah, this trip isn't as glamorous as it could be. I've yet to see the Seine or even be within clear viewing distance of the Eiffel Tower. I've snapped only a handful of photos, and I've become intimately familiar with the Canal+ cable programming lineup.
But I knew going in that this wasn't going to be a free vacation. No corporate junket here. And in the spirit of discovery, I'm getting a good, close look at everyday work life in another country - something you won't find in any guidebook. So take that, Lonely Planet.
Actually, I will be soon. I didn't sleep all that well last night, largely due to the fact that I cranked the heater too much - this room's great at retaining heat. But it was too damn cold outside to open the windows and air it out. All groggy, I snoozed through my THREE freakin' alarms and ended up getting up an hour later than planned.
But I was motivated.
'Cuz dammit, there was more of that yogurt to be had down in the salle de petit dejeuner. Despite being on the verge of being late for my day at the Mothership, I sat and savored it. And the office is so close, I made it in at exactly 9:00 anyway. Note to self: set the alarm a bit later tonight.
I'm glad I had a good feed in the morning, because I was at the office until 8:00. As in P.M.
Whatever you've heard about the 35-hour work week in France, my company obviously hasn't heard of it. Either that or they only work three days a week. It struck me when I was told that I had one of my meetings scheduled at 6:00 that this is definitely a business trip.
But I have to say, the French know how to do business. When you're in meetings for an ungodly amount of time, languishing over a long lunch is fully justified. We hopped down to the local bistro (known as the official restaurant of my company's executive management - a handful of others showed up there) where I shared a charcuterie platter with our new marketing honcho. Next thing I knew, my mouth was full of tongue.
Umm, that'd be braised beef tongue. Opting yet again out of my usual steak frites, I went instead with the other special of the day: a French kiss from a bovine. Served up in an awesomely meaty gravy and a side of pureed potatoes, it was the perfect, hearty fuel for a cold day full of meetings.
Our Paris office is remarkably different than back in the Bay Area. Most notably in how quiet it is. While we spend a lot of time joking around and cranking silly songs, people have got their noses buried in their work here. Of course, here they take two hour lunches and 364 days of vacation and/or strike time. In the end, we all get our work done.
Of course, 8:00 didn't mark the end of the work day. Back at my hotel, I decided to check in with the office back home - as it's still early in the day there - and had more work to do. So once again, my chances at a decent dinner went up in smoke. Or up in a cup of convenience-store chocolate pudding I'd kept chilling on the windowsill. I tried once again to forage up some dinner at a late hour, but this is the suburbs, where fluorescent lighting and cheap formica tables rule. And at our horrendous exchange rate, I'm not about to pony up $30 for an Applebee's-level experience.
Yeah, this trip isn't as glamorous as it could be. I've yet to see the Seine or even be within clear viewing distance of the Eiffel Tower. I've snapped only a handful of photos, and I've become intimately familiar with the Canal+ cable programming lineup.
But I knew going in that this wasn't going to be a free vacation. No corporate junket here. And in the spirit of discovery, I'm getting a good, close look at everyday work life in another country - something you won't find in any guidebook. So take that, Lonely Planet.
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