La
I realized only yesterday that since I've graduated college and started working, my somewhat hedonistic approach to life has been missing a basic component. For the longest time, if you'd asked me what the most important drivers of my behavior and happiness were, I'd have told you, without hesitation, "Food and Sex." And I really truly believe it. Food encompasses comfort, nourishment, safety, security, animal satiety. Sex encompasses relationships, physical pleasure, love, ambition, and excitement. But yesterday, as I finally learned how to adjust the snorkel correctly and heard the whoosh of my own breath whispering in and out of my breathing tube, as I stuck my head underwater and felt a shiver on my thigh as I kicked my flippers gently to avoid a mass of living breathing, waving coral just twelve inches below me, I realized that for almost three years I'd forgotten about Wonder. So many fish, so many fishes! Red ones, blue ones, zebra ones, rainbow ones. Ones that stayed still, ones that sparkled in schools, ones that zipped this way and that. Frightening sea slugs, enormous sea mushrooms, a mass of colors that only cartoons can properly render when above water. The way the suns created mysterious speckles in the water and on the sea floor. My timidity when it came to touching anything. My shy, secret little desire to go back again and again, for longer and longer each time, to see what I could see even if I was a scaredy cat.
Oh, but do you still remember your childhood, when no day was ever like another, when wonder didn't have to get up and hit you in the head for you to remember that it's a basic reason for being? I think I remember mine now. So, a new retort now when people ask me the meaning of life. "Food and Sex and Wonder."
But for now, I've left the perfect beach behind me, in a trail of white foam and a swell of open wind on water with tropical birds flapping in its wake. When I want to be reminded of the breezy nights when the clouds would light up with flashes of pink but no thunder could be heard to follow, or the fifteen thousand shades of light blue as the sand faded into the tide faded into the sea faded into the islands faded into the hills faded into the skies faded into the clouds, I just have to pull out my clumsy little sketches, and I can smell the salt.
Last night was my first proper night in Singapore, and I spent it with an old friend from New York who, by some stroke of fortune, happened to relocate on this little slice of earth. He seemed hellbent on introducing me to just about every NYC-esque bar on the island. Strange to be wandering around a city again. Kitchy sedans, pillowed settees, blaring R&B, fancy faucets, slinky skirts and heels galore, circling cabs, manicured lawns and well-lit bridges. Almost like home except that all the girls are Asian (strangely, the men are not). But I didn't care, because I have to admit, these Singaporean bartenders make a mean lychee martini (4 or 5) and a delicious cosmopolitan (2, I think). Toto, I don't think we're in Fonty any more. Oh, but I'm paying for them now. Woke up at 9:30 completely woozy, and fell back abed until 14:30, when the dizziness (but not the dullness between the earlobes) had passed.
Time to get showered, I think, and to unpack my bags before heading to campus for the first time. Welcome to south east Asia, la!
Friday, October 15, 2004
I hate airports
I'm obviously in a race against myself to see how many flights I can miss before I finish INSEAD. Yesterday I chalked up two for the team, which is why I am painfully typing away on a French keyboard in the Sofitel Charles de Gaulle right now, and not sitting in the sun in a little white bikini sipping cocktails on a boat. But let me start from the beginning of yesterday . . . .
4:35 finally finish packing, and go to sleep
5:20 rush off to Gare du Nord, driven by a friend
7:16 take off on the Eurostar for London with baggage and interview pre-reading in tow
8:56 arrive at London Waterloo station, inquire about early luggage check-in for British Airways Heathrow, am told to go to Paddington, which I haplessly do, only to find that BA no longer has in-town check-in at Paddington.
10:40 leave luggage at Paddington station, head off to Canary Wharf
11:30 interviews start
13:20 end interviews early, rush off to tube
13:58 arrive at Paddington to get luggage and miss Heathrow Express by just 3 minutes
14:10 take off on next Heathrow Express
14:37 Express experiences delays, finally get to Terminal 4, running like a tail-heavy chicken for the lines
14:40 Admit to self that I've missed my 14:50 flight, head crying over to the help desk
15:00 Am told miraculously by wonderful British man that I can get on the 16:14, and my luggage can be automatically transferred, and I just might make my 19:25 to Singapore
16:14 Get on plane, after finally eating something
18:40 we land late, I'm sweating as I rush out
18:46 Nice French man at the correspondences (transfer) desk says he'll do his best, but suddenly there's a problem with my ticket, it's been issued incorrectly
19:05 says there's nothing he can do, walks an almost weeping shell-shocked me to the exit
19:20 He chases me down at the baggage claim to say it's AirFrance's mistake, that my ticket was actually fine
19:21 But I've already missed my flight
19:50 I cry, but get over it, and wait for them to make arrangements for me to fly out the next day, making painful phone calls
21:00 After waiting in vain for my luggage, I give up and take the shuttle to the airport hotel they provided
22:00 Room service, more phone calls, lonely plane takeoffs and landings blinking outside my windows
23:00 sleep, finally
This morning was more of the same. It's so strange, but I can't remember the last time I spent such a long time by myself, completely unproductively. Feels eerily like Lost in Translation. I made condensation pictures with my breath against the window, and thought about how I used to leave messages in the steam against the bathroom mirror. There's really only so much one can do when by oneself. I don't think I'm my own favorite company at all. Probably not even 7th or 8th on my list. But now it's time to go and catch (??) another flight (they never found my luggage last night, and supposedly it'll be in Singapore when I get there, even though it's not going to be on my flight . . . hmm) , then to purchase another connection to Lankawi. Wish me luck, for I'm sure I'll need it!
I'm obviously in a race against myself to see how many flights I can miss before I finish INSEAD. Yesterday I chalked up two for the team, which is why I am painfully typing away on a French keyboard in the Sofitel Charles de Gaulle right now, and not sitting in the sun in a little white bikini sipping cocktails on a boat. But let me start from the beginning of yesterday . . . .
4:35 finally finish packing, and go to sleep
5:20 rush off to Gare du Nord, driven by a friend
7:16 take off on the Eurostar for London with baggage and interview pre-reading in tow
8:56 arrive at London Waterloo station, inquire about early luggage check-in for British Airways Heathrow, am told to go to Paddington, which I haplessly do, only to find that BA no longer has in-town check-in at Paddington.
10:40 leave luggage at Paddington station, head off to Canary Wharf
11:30 interviews start
13:20 end interviews early, rush off to tube
13:58 arrive at Paddington to get luggage and miss Heathrow Express by just 3 minutes
14:10 take off on next Heathrow Express
14:37 Express experiences delays, finally get to Terminal 4, running like a tail-heavy chicken for the lines
14:40 Admit to self that I've missed my 14:50 flight, head crying over to the help desk
15:00 Am told miraculously by wonderful British man that I can get on the 16:14, and my luggage can be automatically transferred, and I just might make my 19:25 to Singapore
16:14 Get on plane, after finally eating something
18:40 we land late, I'm sweating as I rush out
18:46 Nice French man at the correspondences (transfer) desk says he'll do his best, but suddenly there's a problem with my ticket, it's been issued incorrectly
19:05 says there's nothing he can do, walks an almost weeping shell-shocked me to the exit
19:20 He chases me down at the baggage claim to say it's AirFrance's mistake, that my ticket was actually fine
19:21 But I've already missed my flight
19:50 I cry, but get over it, and wait for them to make arrangements for me to fly out the next day, making painful phone calls
21:00 After waiting in vain for my luggage, I give up and take the shuttle to the airport hotel they provided
22:00 Room service, more phone calls, lonely plane takeoffs and landings blinking outside my windows
23:00 sleep, finally
This morning was more of the same. It's so strange, but I can't remember the last time I spent such a long time by myself, completely unproductively. Feels eerily like Lost in Translation. I made condensation pictures with my breath against the window, and thought about how I used to leave messages in the steam against the bathroom mirror. There's really only so much one can do when by oneself. I don't think I'm my own favorite company at all. Probably not even 7th or 8th on my list. But now it's time to go and catch (??) another flight (they never found my luggage last night, and supposedly it'll be in Singapore when I get there, even though it's not going to be on my flight . . . hmm) , then to purchase another connection to Lankawi. Wish me luck, for I'm sure I'll need it!
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Lucky
Oh what an odd end of the period day it has been. Somehow slept off the stress of "Am I socially inept?" panic that set in during my sleepless from Turkey state last night after I attended a mostly Januaries party where most of the people were friends I only knew of, but didn't know. Strange, you know, you think you're so comfortable and have such great friends, but then you realize that there's a veritable sea of unexplored friendships out there, and you're off to Singapore, not to be back for more than a week. What if? Who knows? This morning was significantly calmer as I set foot into school with only the three tasks of a) migrating my emails because INSEAD somehow won't allow you to keep the same address between campuses, b) reading over my little brother's early application essay for college, and c) doing a bit of research for the final round interviews with a bank in London tomorrow (S&T! I'm a traitor, but not completely, right?). Strange only got stranger, as I read through two emails from a company that I'd met with over a month ago, from whom I hadn't heard a peep and had assumed was a write-off since other friends have been back repeatedly to headquarters to find their fit. The first email was a typical-- we're impressed, we're happy, blah blah, but there isn't anything available for you and we're not pursuing your application further. The second one, just a few hours later, said, hey, something's come up, ignore our earlier email, "we are delighted to offer you a position in China." Could have knocked me over with a feather. Who knew you could get an offer from a global company after just half an hour of chatting on campus? We'll pursue this further when in Asia, but just goes to prove that life happens in mysterious ways. So, to a creative but poorly paid and potentially dead-end job in Shanghai, the wild wild East, or back to an investment banking house with an astromical salary in London, structuring derivatives and similar such ephemeral money generators until I waste away into a pale, lifeless blob?
Just came from my last dinner at le Boar au Broc in Bourron Marlotte, had pied de cochon for entree. Lovely. All my bestest bestest friends around me-- no problems with feeling socially inept tonight. It was nice enough to make me shed a tear that these wonderful folks wouldn't be with me for the next six weeks. But who am I to complain, right? I'm such a damn lucky girl. Singapore sunshine and Lankawi beaches, here I come . . . Paris, London, Singapore, Lankawi, what next?
Oh what an odd end of the period day it has been. Somehow slept off the stress of "Am I socially inept?" panic that set in during my sleepless from Turkey state last night after I attended a mostly Januaries party where most of the people were friends I only knew of, but didn't know. Strange, you know, you think you're so comfortable and have such great friends, but then you realize that there's a veritable sea of unexplored friendships out there, and you're off to Singapore, not to be back for more than a week. What if? Who knows? This morning was significantly calmer as I set foot into school with only the three tasks of a) migrating my emails because INSEAD somehow won't allow you to keep the same address between campuses, b) reading over my little brother's early application essay for college, and c) doing a bit of research for the final round interviews with a bank in London tomorrow (S&T! I'm a traitor, but not completely, right?). Strange only got stranger, as I read through two emails from a company that I'd met with over a month ago, from whom I hadn't heard a peep and had assumed was a write-off since other friends have been back repeatedly to headquarters to find their fit. The first email was a typical-- we're impressed, we're happy, blah blah, but there isn't anything available for you and we're not pursuing your application further. The second one, just a few hours later, said, hey, something's come up, ignore our earlier email, "we are delighted to offer you a position in China." Could have knocked me over with a feather. Who knew you could get an offer from a global company after just half an hour of chatting on campus? We'll pursue this further when in Asia, but just goes to prove that life happens in mysterious ways. So, to a creative but poorly paid and potentially dead-end job in Shanghai, the wild wild East, or back to an investment banking house with an astromical salary in London, structuring derivatives and similar such ephemeral money generators until I waste away into a pale, lifeless blob?
Just came from my last dinner at le Boar au Broc in Bourron Marlotte, had pied de cochon for entree. Lovely. All my bestest bestest friends around me-- no problems with feeling socially inept tonight. It was nice enough to make me shed a tear that these wonderful folks wouldn't be with me for the next six weeks. But who am I to complain, right? I'm such a damn lucky girl. Singapore sunshine and Lankawi beaches, here I come . . . Paris, London, Singapore, Lankawi, what next?
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Turkish Delight
Crazily enough, I got everything on my list checked off. The dinners were eaten, the interviews muddled through, the parties attended, the projects churned out (quality not controlled, but I suppose that's my own fault-- am wincing at the idea of what my grades might look like), the problem sets pawned off, and even Istanbul visited! Whew, now onto the next crisis.
Last Friday I was not a happy camper. Had gotten nothing done the night before because the entire INSEAD computer system was down-- even excel could not be opened. Shameful, the state of our infrastructure at this place-- not what I'd expect from a top tier business school, but I suppose that's what happens when you locate it in the boonies of France. What's a girl to do? She rents a movie from the 24-hour kiosk in Fontainebleau and wastes the evening away, that's what. Early morning rise, driving in the dewy wet, slowly lifting darkness to my interviews-- hotel rooms, glass-paneled coffee tables, three great connections, one not-so-great goof (you have one call at strike 90 selling for 85, the spot is 80, the forward is 100, what's the intrinsic value of the call, and what's the volatility component that you need to reflect on your balance sheet? Durrrrr . . . . ), but what the heck. Que sera, sera.
Then, running running running around, no time to attend class, just desperately plugging away at this and that final project. By 22:00, my eyes bloodshot and my fingers shaky, I triumphantly deleted all of the extra French week ticket request bids from my email inbox and sent off my projects in care of my groupmates for the weekend, and stumbled blearily toward the car. Chug home, only to find that the electricity is (of course), out at the chateau. Use the light of my phone to pack the bare minimum in my lunch-box sized suitcase, slip on my best Moulin Rouge black transparent number and a slinky blazer, and off are me and my little blue Peugeot for gay Paris. Onto the peripherique, out over the Quai d'ivry, and into Paris centre, toward the lights of the Eiffel. Something so calming about driving along the Seine, seeing the water peek at you every now and then. I think that even if I had seen twenty times more of the City this year, I would still be missing it already. Parked, and waited shivering in the chilly night straight below the belly of the Eiffel. Did you know that every hour at night it starts to sparkle like a gigantic Christmas tree? Magic. Well, maybe it would have been slightly more magical without the creepy keychain hawkers trying to ask me what part of the world I'm from (Please! Some originality, gentlemen!), but my saviors apearred en masse and we were off to the boat party. A good time and nasty over-alcoholic drinks were had by all. Lots of steamy dancing and enthusiastic goodbyes, lots of "who am I going to dance with now!" and "but you can't leave!" Still, I think it has yet to hit me.
At some point, I found myself stumbling back to my car, feet complaining loudly. Munched on doritos as we drove to some hotel that a few friends had booked in the area. I took a shower and stepped gingerly over three soundly sleeping boys to sneak out in the wee hours and drive sleepily to CDG to catch my 7:30 flight. Anyone who has ever waited in line at a French airport on no sleep will understand the true misery of my predicament. But wait, it gets better! I must look like a helpful young thing, because I was singled out by an interesting lady from Cameroon to aid her in carrying an extremely heavy trash bag full of odds and ends wrapped in what looked like masking tape. Hm. But what could I do? She was so effusively grateful, and she was wearing strange bedroom slippers (the kind with feathers sticking out) in a bright shade of green. Would have been fine if the thing weren't so damned heavy (and she didn't help, either).
Anywho, I finally make it to Turkey by the afternoon, and from then on, it was smooth sailing. Nothing like putting together comfortable friends and a new environment to decompress all the stupid pretenses out of people and really open the way for conversations that actually discover something. I must say, I got my fill of hummus and baklava. I have some Turkish delight in my car, which I'm very tempted not to share :)
Ai, and of course there's more, there's always more. There's the completely bizarre entertainment night that we signed up for, the gorgeous belly dancing and the ridiculous lounge act. The Turkish baths where I was scrubbed (hard) from head to arse to foot by a fleshy naked Turkish woman. The grand bazaar where I bought a white leather skirt (don't ask) with silver grommets. The last dinner, where we talked creationism, catholicism, agnosticism, and faith. And the flight back, of course, again at 7:30 in the morning.
Ah yawn. Am so so tired. Dinner tonight? Must, can't waste what short time I have with all these wonderful people I won't be seeing after Wednesday! Party tonight? Oh, I might be amenable, if the right pressure were applied. But then again, when I finally get my eyes closed, who knows what can get me up?
Crazily enough, I got everything on my list checked off. The dinners were eaten, the interviews muddled through, the parties attended, the projects churned out (quality not controlled, but I suppose that's my own fault-- am wincing at the idea of what my grades might look like), the problem sets pawned off, and even Istanbul visited! Whew, now onto the next crisis.
Last Friday I was not a happy camper. Had gotten nothing done the night before because the entire INSEAD computer system was down-- even excel could not be opened. Shameful, the state of our infrastructure at this place-- not what I'd expect from a top tier business school, but I suppose that's what happens when you locate it in the boonies of France. What's a girl to do? She rents a movie from the 24-hour kiosk in Fontainebleau and wastes the evening away, that's what. Early morning rise, driving in the dewy wet, slowly lifting darkness to my interviews-- hotel rooms, glass-paneled coffee tables, three great connections, one not-so-great goof (you have one call at strike 90 selling for 85, the spot is 80, the forward is 100, what's the intrinsic value of the call, and what's the volatility component that you need to reflect on your balance sheet? Durrrrr . . . . ), but what the heck. Que sera, sera.
Then, running running running around, no time to attend class, just desperately plugging away at this and that final project. By 22:00, my eyes bloodshot and my fingers shaky, I triumphantly deleted all of the extra French week ticket request bids from my email inbox and sent off my projects in care of my groupmates for the weekend, and stumbled blearily toward the car. Chug home, only to find that the electricity is (of course), out at the chateau. Use the light of my phone to pack the bare minimum in my lunch-box sized suitcase, slip on my best Moulin Rouge black transparent number and a slinky blazer, and off are me and my little blue Peugeot for gay Paris. Onto the peripherique, out over the Quai d'ivry, and into Paris centre, toward the lights of the Eiffel. Something so calming about driving along the Seine, seeing the water peek at you every now and then. I think that even if I had seen twenty times more of the City this year, I would still be missing it already. Parked, and waited shivering in the chilly night straight below the belly of the Eiffel. Did you know that every hour at night it starts to sparkle like a gigantic Christmas tree? Magic. Well, maybe it would have been slightly more magical without the creepy keychain hawkers trying to ask me what part of the world I'm from (Please! Some originality, gentlemen!), but my saviors apearred en masse and we were off to the boat party. A good time and nasty over-alcoholic drinks were had by all. Lots of steamy dancing and enthusiastic goodbyes, lots of "who am I going to dance with now!" and "but you can't leave!" Still, I think it has yet to hit me.
At some point, I found myself stumbling back to my car, feet complaining loudly. Munched on doritos as we drove to some hotel that a few friends had booked in the area. I took a shower and stepped gingerly over three soundly sleeping boys to sneak out in the wee hours and drive sleepily to CDG to catch my 7:30 flight. Anyone who has ever waited in line at a French airport on no sleep will understand the true misery of my predicament. But wait, it gets better! I must look like a helpful young thing, because I was singled out by an interesting lady from Cameroon to aid her in carrying an extremely heavy trash bag full of odds and ends wrapped in what looked like masking tape. Hm. But what could I do? She was so effusively grateful, and she was wearing strange bedroom slippers (the kind with feathers sticking out) in a bright shade of green. Would have been fine if the thing weren't so damned heavy (and she didn't help, either).
Anywho, I finally make it to Turkey by the afternoon, and from then on, it was smooth sailing. Nothing like putting together comfortable friends and a new environment to decompress all the stupid pretenses out of people and really open the way for conversations that actually discover something. I must say, I got my fill of hummus and baklava. I have some Turkish delight in my car, which I'm very tempted not to share :)
Ai, and of course there's more, there's always more. There's the completely bizarre entertainment night that we signed up for, the gorgeous belly dancing and the ridiculous lounge act. The Turkish baths where I was scrubbed (hard) from head to arse to foot by a fleshy naked Turkish woman. The grand bazaar where I bought a white leather skirt (don't ask) with silver grommets. The last dinner, where we talked creationism, catholicism, agnosticism, and faith. And the flight back, of course, again at 7:30 in the morning.
Ah yawn. Am so so tired. Dinner tonight? Must, can't waste what short time I have with all these wonderful people I won't be seeing after Wednesday! Party tonight? Oh, I might be amenable, if the right pressure were applied. But then again, when I finally get my eyes closed, who knows what can get me up?
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Know what I've fallen in love with? My options class. It's so satisfying in the midst of all this hustle and bustle to sit down and twist some numbers into a good hard right answer for once. These things we do to feel like we've done something. But I'm seriously considering derivatives as a career path-- I know, this from the girl who said she'd rather be drawn and quartered before going back to a bank. But pride is silly when it gets in the way of happiness, and I honestly think I might be happy structuring these nifty little products-- something appealing about how mathematical they are, how complex they can be, and how much money they make out of thin air. I know, I'm a nerd.
Last night was my last castle dinner. I forced everyone to come in black tie, and it was lovely to see silk and satin by candlelight. Still, it being the end of the term (again!), people left much earlier than last time. In the end it was a motley crew of six or so drinking ourselves sodden into the furniture until who knows when. Ugh, dragging myself out of bed this morning was a disorienting experience, as was getting to school and having to finish up a group presentation. So many last dinners and parties to attend, so little time! How is it possible to squeeze two final projects, two problem sets, four interviews and interview prep, one dinner party, one huge national week party and one weekend trip to Istanbul all into the next four days? I don't know, but I'm certainly going to try. Such is INSEAD, right?
Oh, one more piece of exciting news-- I received my absentee ballot today! Two months of waiting with bated breath. Just in the nick of time-- my vote will make a difference! Okay, now it's time to be good so that I can justify rewarding myself later. Am excited about the French week party-- they're going all out and hosting it on a riverboat on the Seine, starting at the Tour Eiffel. Demand was so good that they had to add a second boat at last minute. But catching that 7:30 flight to Istanbul the next day is not going to be pretty. Ah, well-- I'll let you know how it goes.
Last night was my last castle dinner. I forced everyone to come in black tie, and it was lovely to see silk and satin by candlelight. Still, it being the end of the term (again!), people left much earlier than last time. In the end it was a motley crew of six or so drinking ourselves sodden into the furniture until who knows when. Ugh, dragging myself out of bed this morning was a disorienting experience, as was getting to school and having to finish up a group presentation. So many last dinners and parties to attend, so little time! How is it possible to squeeze two final projects, two problem sets, four interviews and interview prep, one dinner party, one huge national week party and one weekend trip to Istanbul all into the next four days? I don't know, but I'm certainly going to try. Such is INSEAD, right?
Oh, one more piece of exciting news-- I received my absentee ballot today! Two months of waiting with bated breath. Just in the nick of time-- my vote will make a difference! Okay, now it's time to be good so that I can justify rewarding myself later. Am excited about the French week party-- they're going all out and hosting it on a riverboat on the Seine, starting at the Tour Eiffel. Demand was so good that they had to add a second boat at last minute. But catching that 7:30 flight to Istanbul the next day is not going to be pretty. Ah, well-- I'll let you know how it goes.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Can't believe I'm leaving for Singapore in two weeks. Can't believe I'm leaving France. Can't believe where my whimsy has taken me-- my eighteen year-old self never would have imagined this path. Life recently has been strange and scary. It hasn't been made any better by random selections and random rejections by random companies. It's hard not to feel raped by the on-campus recruitment process -- when else do your qualifications and your desires have so little to do with your results? It almost makes me wish I'd applied to consulting companies . . . but not really.
Am toying with a new business idea . . . one that actually turns me on. But am I too much of a mouse to go it on my own? Oh decisions. Remember Dead Poet's Society, when the professor asks, "what will be your contribution? What line will you add to the grand poem?" Reminder to self-- do not settle, and do not forget, and do not give up. Ai, but school is such a bore, and my procrastinating tendencies have gotten even worse.
Plus, I've turned the heater on, finally. In the car, too. There's something so cathartic about driving. I feel like I'm floating in a warm bubble of air as I drive past the fields and woods on the road to school. Bubbles are such delicate things . . . so I keep my fingers inside and my neck straight and I sit for awhile even after I've stopped the car, finishing that last song on the radio before I have to pop open the door and step outside into the real world.
But I'm going to put that out of my head for now. No more sulking for at least the next 12 hours. Tonight is la nuit blanche in Paris, and all of the museums and cultural institutions are open all night. Must go home and agonize over what to wear. Ah, the joys of being girly.
Am toying with a new business idea . . . one that actually turns me on. But am I too much of a mouse to go it on my own? Oh decisions. Remember Dead Poet's Society, when the professor asks, "what will be your contribution? What line will you add to the grand poem?" Reminder to self-- do not settle, and do not forget, and do not give up. Ai, but school is such a bore, and my procrastinating tendencies have gotten even worse.
Plus, I've turned the heater on, finally. In the car, too. There's something so cathartic about driving. I feel like I'm floating in a warm bubble of air as I drive past the fields and woods on the road to school. Bubbles are such delicate things . . . so I keep my fingers inside and my neck straight and I sit for awhile even after I've stopped the car, finishing that last song on the radio before I have to pop open the door and step outside into the real world.
But I'm going to put that out of my head for now. No more sulking for at least the next 12 hours. Tonight is la nuit blanche in Paris, and all of the museums and cultural institutions are open all night. Must go home and agonize over what to wear. Ah, the joys of being girly.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
Trop
The chill in the air is wending its way into my finger bones. The email system is not working and my mouth feels dry and sticky. Even after a shower and a change and a drive through the sparkling bright wheat fields I can still feel last night clinging to my pores. I need tea and pancakes and maple syrup. And a movie in a fluffy bed with just one other person, I think.
I awoke this morning to a naked Frenchman standing above me, looking down inquisitively at the very small blanket I lay beneath. I yelped, and my friend who was sharing the couch with me woke up, blearily looked around, barked a reprimand at Mr. Naked in French, and went back to sleep as if nothing had happened. The naked French boy shuffled confusedly back to his bedroom.
This was obviously not a good way to start the morning. I decided that it was a bad omen and that I should get out of this friend-of-a-friend's apartment while the going was still possible. So I left the flat with its steamy sleepy air, and stepped out into the milky Paris morning with my hair and clothes smelling of cigarettes. I found my way to the Metro (look mom, all by myself), then the train back to Fontainebleau. The rusty landscape flashed white around the edges and hazy purple hangover clouds swirled around my brain as I rested my forehead against the window.
Missed the KamaSutra party because dinner ran late and I had no ride back from Paris. Still, the dinner was lovely, and even lovelier was the gorgeous NYC-style loft apartment in the Bastille where it was held. Nothing like open space, shiny appliances, tall ceilings and no doors. Dinner, Louis Armstrong singing Moon River, caipirinhas, wine, grappa, polish vodka shots, cigarettes glowing red in the candleflames and silhouettes against the window, and we were off to the clubs. I got my first motorcycle ride behind Etienne, streaking through the tiny spaces between the cars while clinging on to my purse and his middle as tightly as I could without making him think I was scared. Then Doobie's, dancing on the banquettes and spilling cranberry vodka down my shirt . . .
I am so tired. I've had it with this week. It's just been far too much. And I've had it with boys. Why is INSEAD so damn full of boys? Boys in suits and interviews, boys who smile with their eyes, boys who check you out and don't care if you notice, boys who won't take no for an answer, boys who love their girlfriends, boys who give you compliments, boys who are so much fun to hang around that you can't help yourself, boys who are selfish bastards, boys with cute accents, boys who smell nice, boys who press their advantage, boys who get the wrong impression, boys who are more fragile than you think, boys who are not and will never be the boy.
The chill in the air is wending its way into my finger bones. The email system is not working and my mouth feels dry and sticky. Even after a shower and a change and a drive through the sparkling bright wheat fields I can still feel last night clinging to my pores. I need tea and pancakes and maple syrup. And a movie in a fluffy bed with just one other person, I think.
I awoke this morning to a naked Frenchman standing above me, looking down inquisitively at the very small blanket I lay beneath. I yelped, and my friend who was sharing the couch with me woke up, blearily looked around, barked a reprimand at Mr. Naked in French, and went back to sleep as if nothing had happened. The naked French boy shuffled confusedly back to his bedroom.
This was obviously not a good way to start the morning. I decided that it was a bad omen and that I should get out of this friend-of-a-friend's apartment while the going was still possible. So I left the flat with its steamy sleepy air, and stepped out into the milky Paris morning with my hair and clothes smelling of cigarettes. I found my way to the Metro (look mom, all by myself), then the train back to Fontainebleau. The rusty landscape flashed white around the edges and hazy purple hangover clouds swirled around my brain as I rested my forehead against the window.
Missed the KamaSutra party because dinner ran late and I had no ride back from Paris. Still, the dinner was lovely, and even lovelier was the gorgeous NYC-style loft apartment in the Bastille where it was held. Nothing like open space, shiny appliances, tall ceilings and no doors. Dinner, Louis Armstrong singing Moon River, caipirinhas, wine, grappa, polish vodka shots, cigarettes glowing red in the candleflames and silhouettes against the window, and we were off to the clubs. I got my first motorcycle ride behind Etienne, streaking through the tiny spaces between the cars while clinging on to my purse and his middle as tightly as I could without making him think I was scared. Then Doobie's, dancing on the banquettes and spilling cranberry vodka down my shirt . . .
I am so tired. I've had it with this week. It's just been far too much. And I've had it with boys. Why is INSEAD so damn full of boys? Boys in suits and interviews, boys who smile with their eyes, boys who check you out and don't care if you notice, boys who won't take no for an answer, boys who love their girlfriends, boys who give you compliments, boys who are so much fun to hang around that you can't help yourself, boys who are selfish bastards, boys with cute accents, boys who smell nice, boys who press their advantage, boys who get the wrong impression, boys who are more fragile than you think, boys who are not and will never be the boy.
Friday, September 24, 2004
Last night's dinner party was a "white trash" theme . . . let's just say that lots of Europeans seem to have no idea what white trash means. Some people came dressed all in white-- go figure. The American girls had lots of fun hooching it up-- nothing like combining heels, short shorts, a cutoff shirt . . . all in pink with thong peeking out of course. We have pictures, but I'm not sharing ;).
Tonight's the Kama Sutra party, but I don't know if I'll make it back from Paris in time (obligatory birthday dinner). Ugh. Am dead dead tired and so behind on everything. Bruises everywhere, eyelids dragging down . . . job stress, of course. And my apartment! Piles of laundry that I have every intention of getting to, right after I take that nap I've been promising myself . . .
Tonight's the Kama Sutra party, but I don't know if I'll make it back from Paris in time (obligatory birthday dinner). Ugh. Am dead dead tired and so behind on everything. Bruises everywhere, eyelids dragging down . . . job stress, of course. And my apartment! Piles of laundry that I have every intention of getting to, right after I take that nap I've been promising myself . . .
Friday, September 10, 2004
Today I attended an optional lecture by a popular Psych professor here about “Balancing your personal and professional life,” mainly given for the benefit of those MBAs with partners. As sad as it was to attend alone in that amphi full of couples, I think the lessons he had to give were achingly relevant. Here’s what my sieve-like brain managed to take away from it all:
- There is such a thing as too late. People die. Childhood has its expiration dates. Relationships end. Carpe diem—it’s proven that we can’t go back in time, so live your life in the present as richly and expressively as you can.
- Being selfish is one of the dumbest things you can do, because you’ll die unhappy and alone. Be loving, and go forth and have children. You’ll never regret the children you have, just the ones you never had.
- Taking care of babies makes you a better lover—you learn to pay attention to and read someone who does not talk.
Sad, sad to think of mistakes I've made, opportunities I've passed up. The parents get back tonight from Rome, and we’re scheduled to do more touristing--Versailles and Paris tomorrow, but my alternator seems to have died on me. The damned thing needs to be jumpstarted at every turn. Not having a car here is very very problematic. Tonight there are rumblings of dinner and Cabaret (a nightclub) in Paris. Will be eating with the parents at home, but methinks I will do some old fashioned slipping out after they go to bed, and see if I can't get some dancing in. This week certainly had its share of events, and I think I even got sloshed enough at one of them to produce some (more) incriminating photos. Will never learn-- can't seem to keep my hands and hips to myself once the alcohol level ticks above 0.05. Contrast that to last night-- at school until 2am to meet an application deadline for 6am this morning. Ugh.
Recruiting is really dragging everyone down. This afternoon I attended an informational session for Barclay's Capital, but was so offended by the pompous tone of the presenter ("Of course, we were very pleased with that deal. We just received another mandate this week") that I had to leave in the middle. No way am I going into another job run by asshole wankers who think they are God's gift to the world, no matter how much overpaying they are reputed to do.
Monday, September 06, 2004
Family
My father has become one of those people who believes that if you repeat something in English more loudly, the French will start to understand. Please, someone hide me. The whole big Chinese family is in Fontainebleau-- father, mother, brother and all. For two of them, it's their first time in Europe, and for all of them, it's their first time in France. They arrived on Saturday, and after picking them up from de Gaulle, we spent much of our time navigating around Paris in order to buy the requisite Chinese groceries (the only form of sustenance that they can take, apparently), after which they came back to the castle and collapsed from jet lag. Of course the family only listened to the first part of my sentence when I told them, "It's been pretty chilly and rainy here, but it could get warmer, you should check online." They only brought pants and sweaters, so now with this wave of sunny weather we've resorted to having my mother wear my things (complaints about necklines, hemlines, etc.). Oh, the joy of family reunions.
Yesterday was an exhausting day (for everyone except dad, who has boundless energy when it comes to famous landmarks) jostling in line for the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel. Today after circling the right hours, times, locations on directories, maps, schedules, it was with many misgivings that I saw them off on the train to Paris again before driving back to school for a breath of normalcy. Tomorrow I get to send them off to Rome for the week before they descend on me again for the weekend-- I'm not a religious girl, but I'll be praying.
On other news, the job searching for P4s seems to have launched in full swing after the CMS kickoff meetings last Friday. It's all-out panic dressed down in black suits, walking around and nervously checking the bulletin board of company presentations, whispering about networks and contacts, surreptitiously flitting around the CMS website. It's damned depressing, actually, because there's little to do if you're avoiding all the consulting and banking presentations as a matter of principle, as I am. I keep telling people that I'm looking in Asia, but I get the feeling that this is just a sentence I've become attached to just so I have something to say when asked the 1-million times a day question. But meanwhile I'll keep filling my stomach, attending last-minute classes, and pretending that I'll never have to work again. Avoidance as a strategy works pretty well, up until the very end. The good news is that I can live in Beijing and waitress (or teach English, a comparable job) after graduation, so at least I won't starve.
Tonight is my second girl's rugby practice, which I've just joined in order to add to my avoid-a-job-search activities. It's also my would-be two-year anniversary with the (ex) boyfriend. You know, being a single girl at INSEAD isn't all that it's cracked up to be. You go to classes, lunch, parties, etc., and you act just as you did before, and the boys are just as flirtatious as they were before, but the difference is that now instead of coming home to a phone call, you just come home- more alone than before. Sigh. It's been a month since breaking up, perhaps it's time to break the ice-- famous last words . . .
My father has become one of those people who believes that if you repeat something in English more loudly, the French will start to understand. Please, someone hide me. The whole big Chinese family is in Fontainebleau-- father, mother, brother and all. For two of them, it's their first time in Europe, and for all of them, it's their first time in France. They arrived on Saturday, and after picking them up from de Gaulle, we spent much of our time navigating around Paris in order to buy the requisite Chinese groceries (the only form of sustenance that they can take, apparently), after which they came back to the castle and collapsed from jet lag. Of course the family only listened to the first part of my sentence when I told them, "It's been pretty chilly and rainy here, but it could get warmer, you should check online." They only brought pants and sweaters, so now with this wave of sunny weather we've resorted to having my mother wear my things (complaints about necklines, hemlines, etc.). Oh, the joy of family reunions.
Yesterday was an exhausting day (for everyone except dad, who has boundless energy when it comes to famous landmarks) jostling in line for the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel. Today after circling the right hours, times, locations on directories, maps, schedules, it was with many misgivings that I saw them off on the train to Paris again before driving back to school for a breath of normalcy. Tomorrow I get to send them off to Rome for the week before they descend on me again for the weekend-- I'm not a religious girl, but I'll be praying.
On other news, the job searching for P4s seems to have launched in full swing after the CMS kickoff meetings last Friday. It's all-out panic dressed down in black suits, walking around and nervously checking the bulletin board of company presentations, whispering about networks and contacts, surreptitiously flitting around the CMS website. It's damned depressing, actually, because there's little to do if you're avoiding all the consulting and banking presentations as a matter of principle, as I am. I keep telling people that I'm looking in Asia, but I get the feeling that this is just a sentence I've become attached to just so I have something to say when asked the 1-million times a day question. But meanwhile I'll keep filling my stomach, attending last-minute classes, and pretending that I'll never have to work again. Avoidance as a strategy works pretty well, up until the very end. The good news is that I can live in Beijing and waitress (or teach English, a comparable job) after graduation, so at least I won't starve.
Tonight is my second girl's rugby practice, which I've just joined in order to add to my avoid-a-job-search activities. It's also my would-be two-year anniversary with the (ex) boyfriend. You know, being a single girl at INSEAD isn't all that it's cracked up to be. You go to classes, lunch, parties, etc., and you act just as you did before, and the boys are just as flirtatious as they were before, but the difference is that now instead of coming home to a phone call, you just come home- more alone than before. Sigh. It's been a month since breaking up, perhaps it's time to break the ice-- famous last words . . .
Monday, August 30, 2004
Saturday evening (rather, Sunday morning at 3:30am), driving home from the big kick-off Welcome Week Party at Chateau Vaux-le-Penil in Melun, a chateau-mate and I were pulled over in his Porsche for my flipping the bird (double handed) and mooning the police car behind us.
But let me rewind. School has gotten off to a chugging start. Classes are in full gear (you're not allowed to drop a class after the first three sessions, and I think it's already too late for me to drop most of mine! Ugh) and my new nest is suitably IKEA-feathered and of course, the social engagement pipeline is streaming merrily with barbeques and brunches and dinners and random social visits. Of course, in between, there is the constant sleety Fontainebleau rain trying to give London a run for its money as worst weather locale in Europe.
There are also the transitions, always driving driving driving with music in these miniature cars, be it clanging techno while crammed with Frenchmen, heart-pounding dance music while joyriding after parties, or cheesy sappy heart-rending ballads that make me suddenly burst into tears on the N7 while racing into the gray on my own. Nothing like a little "I will always love you" to remind you of how to feel alone while swimming in a sea of people.
I digress. Back to being pulled over for mooning the police. By the way, the reason I had decided to pursue such actions was not simply maniacal self-destructiveness. Enrique Iglesias was being pumped at full blast, we were singing out loud, I was drunk as a wet bread crumb, and I thought we were being followed by a carload of friends who were following us home-- so you see it really was their fault for having let a police car come between us. We wobbled out of the car while muttering under our breaths--
"Shit!"
"What, are you drunk?"
"Of course I'm drunk!"
"But I thought you were sober! That's why you're driving!"
"I am sober, but legally I'm not sober!"
"Oh dear. This is bad."
Clamber out, three very angry plainclothes policemen yelling in French.
me- "Messieurs, je suis desolée . . . je croyais que vous êtes mes amis . . . "
Eurgh. How do you apologize for something like this? In our stuttering (very stuttering) French, we affirmed that we were students, that we just came from the party at the Chateau, and that we were deeply, deeply sorry for flipping them off and giving them a view of my arse.
And then, just like that, after barking at us for the longest five minutes ever, they were gone. No breathalyzer, no ticket, just a warning. We thought an angel must be looking after us, but just so we didn't push our luck, we drove home the rest of the way at 50 kmh. Welcome back to INSEAD.
But let me rewind. School has gotten off to a chugging start. Classes are in full gear (you're not allowed to drop a class after the first three sessions, and I think it's already too late for me to drop most of mine! Ugh) and my new nest is suitably IKEA-feathered and of course, the social engagement pipeline is streaming merrily with barbeques and brunches and dinners and random social visits. Of course, in between, there is the constant sleety Fontainebleau rain trying to give London a run for its money as worst weather locale in Europe.
There are also the transitions, always driving driving driving with music in these miniature cars, be it clanging techno while crammed with Frenchmen, heart-pounding dance music while joyriding after parties, or cheesy sappy heart-rending ballads that make me suddenly burst into tears on the N7 while racing into the gray on my own. Nothing like a little "I will always love you" to remind you of how to feel alone while swimming in a sea of people.
I digress. Back to being pulled over for mooning the police. By the way, the reason I had decided to pursue such actions was not simply maniacal self-destructiveness. Enrique Iglesias was being pumped at full blast, we were singing out loud, I was drunk as a wet bread crumb, and I thought we were being followed by a carload of friends who were following us home-- so you see it really was their fault for having let a police car come between us. We wobbled out of the car while muttering under our breaths--
"Shit!"
"What, are you drunk?"
"Of course I'm drunk!"
"But I thought you were sober! That's why you're driving!"
"I am sober, but legally I'm not sober!"
"Oh dear. This is bad."
Clamber out, three very angry plainclothes policemen yelling in French.
me- "Messieurs, je suis desolée . . . je croyais que vous êtes mes amis . . . "
Eurgh. How do you apologize for something like this? In our stuttering (very stuttering) French, we affirmed that we were students, that we just came from the party at the Chateau, and that we were deeply, deeply sorry for flipping them off and giving them a view of my arse.
And then, just like that, after barking at us for the longest five minutes ever, they were gone. No breathalyzer, no ticket, just a warning. We thought an angel must be looking after us, but just so we didn't push our luck, we drove home the rest of the way at 50 kmh. Welcome back to INSEAD.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Here at school, not having a phone is the equivalence of social death. With a phone, you can call people for dinner, receive calls for dinner, call friends to see where they're sitting, call people to see if they're home, call people for a ride, call to chat and say welcome back, or at the very least, call home and be comforted by old friends. Without a phone, you have no name, no button on the register of the world. Imagine my dismay when I found my phone completely dead as I got back into France yesterday afternoon. After much excess pain and travel angst, I managed to find my way back to school, and discovered I had to attend a class in the next five minutes. I don't know about you, but after a sweaty 6-hour plane ride with a kid kicking the back of my seat every five minutes at what was the equivalent of 6:00am to my body clock, the last thing I wanted to do was learn about Private Equity. Ech. But I managed through, sitting there in the big bright front row (because of course I entered the class 10 minutes late) with no papers, no handout, not even a pen so I could pretend to take notes.
I still kept hearing jet noises flying around inside my ears, and my eyes, feeling red and wild, kept replaying that sad, tense walk down the security checkpoint aisle, looking back to say goodbye to my life in New York. After finally getting back to the Chateau and regaining possession of my dear, beat-up little Peugeot, I de-musted my rooms by throwing open the shutters and windows. The place looks like a bit of a disaster, it's true, with peeling paint and what-were-you-thinking puce(!) wallpaper and the most disgusting furniture, but it is more space than I have ever had to myself-- in fact, it is the first apartment I've ever had all to myself. Nothing a trip to IKEA can't fix. I spent all night in a storm of reorganization and cleanup, and am happy to report that while the place still looks like a disaster, the beginnings of an organizing principle for each room are visible to my eye. The worst of it, and what finally put me to a frustrated sleep in the end, was the futile search for my phone charger. It is nowhere to be found.
So what's a girl to do? She has to go into town, and purchase another. You'd think this was a easy task, taking no more than a few minutes to accomplish. Ah, but not so, because said charger is only available from the Orange Telecom office, whose line is a requisite 1-hour wait, for ANYTHING, even a pre-packaged charger. Yes folks, I got a traffic ticket while waiting for my turn at the cashier, as I discovered upon pulling out and turning on my windshield wipers (a light rain to greet me back in Fonty, how appropriate), when the ticket flew out to the wind and I had to stop the car to run out and retrieve it. Ugh. Even better? Now my phone's charged, but the service isn't working. Who knows, maybe France Telecom has some rule against having your phone turned off for two months.
So I am still a social pariah, with no way of making contact with my fellow INSEADers short of wandering around campus and peering hopefully into the cubicles. But I'm hopeful that things will look up soon. A dinner at my place tonight, though, to greet the new September inhabitants of the Chateau, followed by national dinners tomorrow. I think an Orangina will cheer me up-- who knows, maybe I'll run into someone at the bar?
I still kept hearing jet noises flying around inside my ears, and my eyes, feeling red and wild, kept replaying that sad, tense walk down the security checkpoint aisle, looking back to say goodbye to my life in New York. After finally getting back to the Chateau and regaining possession of my dear, beat-up little Peugeot, I de-musted my rooms by throwing open the shutters and windows. The place looks like a bit of a disaster, it's true, with peeling paint and what-were-you-thinking puce(!) wallpaper and the most disgusting furniture, but it is more space than I have ever had to myself-- in fact, it is the first apartment I've ever had all to myself. Nothing a trip to IKEA can't fix. I spent all night in a storm of reorganization and cleanup, and am happy to report that while the place still looks like a disaster, the beginnings of an organizing principle for each room are visible to my eye. The worst of it, and what finally put me to a frustrated sleep in the end, was the futile search for my phone charger. It is nowhere to be found.
So what's a girl to do? She has to go into town, and purchase another. You'd think this was a easy task, taking no more than a few minutes to accomplish. Ah, but not so, because said charger is only available from the Orange Telecom office, whose line is a requisite 1-hour wait, for ANYTHING, even a pre-packaged charger. Yes folks, I got a traffic ticket while waiting for my turn at the cashier, as I discovered upon pulling out and turning on my windshield wipers (a light rain to greet me back in Fonty, how appropriate), when the ticket flew out to the wind and I had to stop the car to run out and retrieve it. Ugh. Even better? Now my phone's charged, but the service isn't working. Who knows, maybe France Telecom has some rule against having your phone turned off for two months.
So I am still a social pariah, with no way of making contact with my fellow INSEADers short of wandering around campus and peering hopefully into the cubicles. But I'm hopeful that things will look up soon. A dinner at my place tonight, though, to greet the new September inhabitants of the Chateau, followed by national dinners tomorrow. I think an Orangina will cheer me up-- who knows, maybe I'll run into someone at the bar?
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Lulu
She is not a very clever cat, but what she lacked in cunning she made up for with her glamorous good looks and an innocent if indiscriminately affectionate temperament. This morning I opened my eyes to a tangle of blue cotton sheets around my legs and an otherwise empty bed. Missing her familiar soft weight in the crook of my elbow, I called out "Lulu?" even as I remembered that she doesn't live here any more, and a wooly, sodden sadness settled on my chest.
Lulu came into my life like New York City-- all of a sudden, an unplanned but unexpectedly wonderful perk. She belonged to M., the lady who owned the little apartment in the Lower East Side where I subletted for my first two months before finding a place of my own. The lady was a little bit crazy, and my room was the size of a medium closet (I had to climb a ladder to get to the bed, which spanned the room, and underneath was a tiny desk), but as soon as I walked in, I met Lulu's lovely green eyes. She fell over on her side with an expectant look of "pet me, I'm beautiful," and even friendless as I was, I knew New York had been a good idea.
After moving into my new place, a fancy doorman highrise with shiny new appliances and sparkling city lights across my wall-to-wall windows, I filled my own space with a four poster bed, peach sheets and gauzy georgette bed curtains, but the warmest featherbeds won't purr or rub noses. Luckily M. had to go on a six-month vacation to Iran, and she let me take care of Lulu. So what if the boyfriend of the moment was allergic to cats? He was out the door, and Lulu was in. Six months turned into a year, into two, and no word from M. outside of a few fitful communications that seemed tentative and unwilling at both ends. She seemed unwilling because she was always traveling. I was unwilling because I couldn't bear to let Lulu go.
Coming home from work, feeling like a wrung out rag at 2, 3, or 4 am, all my friends would be asleep, but Lulu was always there at the door, ready with her little white paw and her little pink nose to hang out with me while I brushed my teeth and rambled about my day (to a cat, yes, I know, to a cat). Weekends were the best, because I could sleep all day, until the sun slanted in and made me fling off the sheets, and Lulu would open one sleepy eye as if to say, "stop flailing, girl, I'm still napping." She liked to burrow under my covers with her head. When I would finally get up (well past noon, sometimes as late as 4 or 5pm), we would both pad into the kitchen, looking for food, finding none, and eventually ordering sushi for two(Lulu was one spoiled cat).
She followed me from midtown highrise to Chelsea walk-up as I moved around NYC, but she couldn't follow me to France, because I was moving into a house with some allergic housemates. After some shuffling about, Lulu came to reside in Times Square with the Boyfriend, in his itty bitty apartment with its zebra-print carpet, guitars on the wall, and red couch. Is it in the nature of princesses to assume that their presence is always desired? Maybe somewhere deep down Lulu and I knew that he was doing us a favor by letting her stay, but the way she would loll on the couch and langorously knead her claws in his thighs, you'd have thought that he ought to be thanking her for the privilege of having her in his lap.
But that brings us to yesterday, and goodbye. After all, while you can wheedle a boyfriend into taking care of your cat while you are off doing your MBA in France, asking an ex-boyfriend to do so is stretching the limits, even for a princess like Lulu. The contingency plan until recently was to carry Lulu all the way to Fontainebleau, but to my dismay France changed its animal import laws just last month such that you have to wait at least three months between examination/vaccination and actual transport. Lulu deserves better than to be shunted off to friends who don't love her with all their heart, and I knew there weren't many alternatives. Breaking up is hard to do, as the song goes. Yesterday I looked up M. on Google, and found that she was back in New York. I called the number of the newsletter in Brooklyn that listed her as a part-time contributer, and lo and behold, there she was at my door an hour later, and Lulu was in her carrier, mewing her head off (she only mews when she's scared, which is usually when she has to travel). "Bye bye baby, don't be scared," I told her, "I'll come visit, I love you!" before the yellow cab roared off across town.
So that's it then, every last loose end has been tied up into my patchwork net, ready lift up, up and away from New York City, back to France and into the rest of my life. Lulu, you will always be the best cat in the world, and I will visit when I'm back in NYC. Is it sick to name your firstborn after a pet? Because if I ever have a girl, I might just name her Lulu. I'll never forget you. We've come full circle, baby-- you've gone to your new home, and I'm leaving to find mine. Bon voyage darling, je t'aime!
She is not a very clever cat, but what she lacked in cunning she made up for with her glamorous good looks and an innocent if indiscriminately affectionate temperament. This morning I opened my eyes to a tangle of blue cotton sheets around my legs and an otherwise empty bed. Missing her familiar soft weight in the crook of my elbow, I called out "Lulu?" even as I remembered that she doesn't live here any more, and a wooly, sodden sadness settled on my chest.
Lulu came into my life like New York City-- all of a sudden, an unplanned but unexpectedly wonderful perk. She belonged to M., the lady who owned the little apartment in the Lower East Side where I subletted for my first two months before finding a place of my own. The lady was a little bit crazy, and my room was the size of a medium closet (I had to climb a ladder to get to the bed, which spanned the room, and underneath was a tiny desk), but as soon as I walked in, I met Lulu's lovely green eyes. She fell over on her side with an expectant look of "pet me, I'm beautiful," and even friendless as I was, I knew New York had been a good idea.
After moving into my new place, a fancy doorman highrise with shiny new appliances and sparkling city lights across my wall-to-wall windows, I filled my own space with a four poster bed, peach sheets and gauzy georgette bed curtains, but the warmest featherbeds won't purr or rub noses. Luckily M. had to go on a six-month vacation to Iran, and she let me take care of Lulu. So what if the boyfriend of the moment was allergic to cats? He was out the door, and Lulu was in. Six months turned into a year, into two, and no word from M. outside of a few fitful communications that seemed tentative and unwilling at both ends. She seemed unwilling because she was always traveling. I was unwilling because I couldn't bear to let Lulu go.
Coming home from work, feeling like a wrung out rag at 2, 3, or 4 am, all my friends would be asleep, but Lulu was always there at the door, ready with her little white paw and her little pink nose to hang out with me while I brushed my teeth and rambled about my day (to a cat, yes, I know, to a cat). Weekends were the best, because I could sleep all day, until the sun slanted in and made me fling off the sheets, and Lulu would open one sleepy eye as if to say, "stop flailing, girl, I'm still napping." She liked to burrow under my covers with her head. When I would finally get up (well past noon, sometimes as late as 4 or 5pm), we would both pad into the kitchen, looking for food, finding none, and eventually ordering sushi for two(Lulu was one spoiled cat).
She followed me from midtown highrise to Chelsea walk-up as I moved around NYC, but she couldn't follow me to France, because I was moving into a house with some allergic housemates. After some shuffling about, Lulu came to reside in Times Square with the Boyfriend, in his itty bitty apartment with its zebra-print carpet, guitars on the wall, and red couch. Is it in the nature of princesses to assume that their presence is always desired? Maybe somewhere deep down Lulu and I knew that he was doing us a favor by letting her stay, but the way she would loll on the couch and langorously knead her claws in his thighs, you'd have thought that he ought to be thanking her for the privilege of having her in his lap.
But that brings us to yesterday, and goodbye. After all, while you can wheedle a boyfriend into taking care of your cat while you are off doing your MBA in France, asking an ex-boyfriend to do so is stretching the limits, even for a princess like Lulu. The contingency plan until recently was to carry Lulu all the way to Fontainebleau, but to my dismay France changed its animal import laws just last month such that you have to wait at least three months between examination/vaccination and actual transport. Lulu deserves better than to be shunted off to friends who don't love her with all their heart, and I knew there weren't many alternatives. Breaking up is hard to do, as the song goes. Yesterday I looked up M. on Google, and found that she was back in New York. I called the number of the newsletter in Brooklyn that listed her as a part-time contributer, and lo and behold, there she was at my door an hour later, and Lulu was in her carrier, mewing her head off (she only mews when she's scared, which is usually when she has to travel). "Bye bye baby, don't be scared," I told her, "I'll come visit, I love you!" before the yellow cab roared off across town.
So that's it then, every last loose end has been tied up into my patchwork net, ready lift up, up and away from New York City, back to France and into the rest of my life. Lulu, you will always be the best cat in the world, and I will visit when I'm back in NYC. Is it sick to name your firstborn after a pet? Because if I ever have a girl, I might just name her Lulu. I'll never forget you. We've come full circle, baby-- you've gone to your new home, and I'm leaving to find mine. Bon voyage darling, je t'aime!
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Am dressed in red, and ready to go out for a night of Salsa with my girls . . .
My two best friends came to visit me in California, and after a few days of stuffing ourselves with my mother's food, we roadtripped up the Northwestern seaboard to visit a college friend in Seattle. Along the way, we stopped by for Henry VI at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and stocked up on supplies of CDs and reading material at Walmart. I bought Beatles, Beach Boys, and BonJovi. We also bought an *ahem* harlequin paperback entitled "Hot and Bothered" and took turns reading it out loud as we cruised the mountains of Oregon and Washington. While it was no Shakespeare, we didn't mind because we'd gotten all the culture-mongering out of our system back in Ashland. Amazing how a ridiculously cheesy sex scene can melt the miles away. I provided sound effects whenever the words "muttered, murmurred, sighed, moaned, or gasped" were mentioned (about twice a page, average).
Why can't life be one long road trip where you get to trap all the people you love in the car with you, and nobody's allowed to go home or back to work? But I suppose if we all traveled the same road, nobody would get to discover all those little side paths that you have to find alone. I seem always to be stuck missing the last thing I knew for sure.
My two best friends came to visit me in California, and after a few days of stuffing ourselves with my mother's food, we roadtripped up the Northwestern seaboard to visit a college friend in Seattle. Along the way, we stopped by for Henry VI at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and stocked up on supplies of CDs and reading material at Walmart. I bought Beatles, Beach Boys, and BonJovi. We also bought an *ahem* harlequin paperback entitled "Hot and Bothered" and took turns reading it out loud as we cruised the mountains of Oregon and Washington. While it was no Shakespeare, we didn't mind because we'd gotten all the culture-mongering out of our system back in Ashland. Amazing how a ridiculously cheesy sex scene can melt the miles away. I provided sound effects whenever the words "muttered, murmurred, sighed, moaned, or gasped" were mentioned (about twice a page, average).
Why can't life be one long road trip where you get to trap all the people you love in the car with you, and nobody's allowed to go home or back to work? But I suppose if we all traveled the same road, nobody would get to discover all those little side paths that you have to find alone. I seem always to be stuck missing the last thing I knew for sure.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Paradise on earth
Every time I come home I wonder why I ever left. In my own little twin bed I sink myself down beneath the layers of sheet, comforter and duvet until only my nose is sticking out, quivering with the cool fresh dewy smell of Palo Alto-- homegrown tomato vines outside my open windows, fragrant flowering trees in the neighbor's yard, light dust on the windowsill and the imprint of recent sunshine. I know my overstimulated, overtraveled and overworldly brain will rapidly feel smothered by the ease and simplicity of daily routine here, a pattern so enforced by habit that I can't see the road for the grooves any more. Every road-bend and stopsign, every gray squirrel clambering on our garden fence and every aisle at the public library where I spent my nerdy childhood is as strangely familiar as grade-school and grocery-shopping. There is never any humidity here, and the constant airy sunshine sparkles with pink and yellow hexagons, forcing my mental fingers to rub, startled, at the unearthed remains of my innocence and childish imagination. Remember, I ask myself, when your whole life was just a dream built of images from musty books, cheesy sitcoms and glossy brochures? There is something very peaceful and safe about lying here with my feet hanging off the edges if I do not pull myslf up against the headboard, exactly two minutes before I am lulled asleep to a hint of crickets behind the noiseless hum of sleeping suburbia.
Every time I come home I wonder why I ever left. In my own little twin bed I sink myself down beneath the layers of sheet, comforter and duvet until only my nose is sticking out, quivering with the cool fresh dewy smell of Palo Alto-- homegrown tomato vines outside my open windows, fragrant flowering trees in the neighbor's yard, light dust on the windowsill and the imprint of recent sunshine. I know my overstimulated, overtraveled and overworldly brain will rapidly feel smothered by the ease and simplicity of daily routine here, a pattern so enforced by habit that I can't see the road for the grooves any more. Every road-bend and stopsign, every gray squirrel clambering on our garden fence and every aisle at the public library where I spent my nerdy childhood is as strangely familiar as grade-school and grocery-shopping. There is never any humidity here, and the constant airy sunshine sparkles with pink and yellow hexagons, forcing my mental fingers to rub, startled, at the unearthed remains of my innocence and childish imagination. Remember, I ask myself, when your whole life was just a dream built of images from musty books, cheesy sitcoms and glossy brochures? There is something very peaceful and safe about lying here with my feet hanging off the edges if I do not pull myslf up against the headboard, exactly two minutes before I am lulled asleep to a hint of crickets behind the noiseless hum of sleeping suburbia.
Friday, July 30, 2004
Heartbreak hotel
There's nothing quite like a good old country song to wreak havoc on your heartstrings. And while it may seem slightly ridiculous to imagine a city girl shedding sentimental tears over lyrics about cornfields and open country when her only experience with cornfields has been watching them pass outside her window on roadtrips, I can't help it. I'm a sucker through and through. The dusty image of salvation as a shotgun wedding in a pickup truck sung with a nasal twang and a fatalistic devil-may-care grin makes my heart beat faster and my eyes close, prickling with the plaintive crying of the guitar and some ancient undeniable Jungian Sehnen . . . perhaps I'm cheesy and outdated and pretty uncool, yes, but at least I take comfort in being passionately so. My current semi-country mix, which is so saccharine it stands in as a punishment, but I don't apologize:
Desperado -Eagles
It matters to me -Faith Hill
This is the night -Clay Aiken
Let's go to Vegas -Faith Hill
Carrying your love with me -George Strait
You had me from hello -Kenny Chesney
Everywhere -Tim McGraw
Come crying to me -Lonestar
Amazed -Lonestar
Forever and ever, Amen -Randy Travis
She don't know she's beautiful -Sammy Kershaw
Where the green grass grows -Tim McGraw
And now you know more about me than you'd think.
There's nothing quite like a good old country song to wreak havoc on your heartstrings. And while it may seem slightly ridiculous to imagine a city girl shedding sentimental tears over lyrics about cornfields and open country when her only experience with cornfields has been watching them pass outside her window on roadtrips, I can't help it. I'm a sucker through and through. The dusty image of salvation as a shotgun wedding in a pickup truck sung with a nasal twang and a fatalistic devil-may-care grin makes my heart beat faster and my eyes close, prickling with the plaintive crying of the guitar and some ancient undeniable Jungian Sehnen . . . perhaps I'm cheesy and outdated and pretty uncool, yes, but at least I take comfort in being passionately so. My current semi-country mix, which is so saccharine it stands in as a punishment, but I don't apologize:
Desperado -Eagles
It matters to me -Faith Hill
This is the night -Clay Aiken
Let's go to Vegas -Faith Hill
Carrying your love with me -George Strait
You had me from hello -Kenny Chesney
Everywhere -Tim McGraw
Come crying to me -Lonestar
Amazed -Lonestar
Forever and ever, Amen -Randy Travis
She don't know she's beautiful -Sammy Kershaw
Where the green grass grows -Tim McGraw
And now you know more about me than you'd think.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
on a quotidien existence
I still wonder at my own capacity to settle down into the comfort of a schedule. Ah, what a seductive mistress is Habit, eh? Not the most beautiful companion, she nonetheless has small white hands and an easy way of putting food in front of your face that makes her indispensable to the lazy, such that you don't even realize until it's too late that Passion and Inspiration have rolled their eyes and left your side, tired of your capricious wants and indecisive ways.
I am back in NYC, and loving the whole English-speaking country deal. Ah, the obnoxious accents that only here do not seem out of place! Not being gainfully employed for the summer, I am whiling away my hours by laying on my back on the zebra-print carpet with warm cat on my stomach, talking to Lulu (the cat) about existentialism, my future, and what to eat for dinner (which if you think about it, are different versions of the same thing). My exotic travels to Barcelona, Cote d'Azur, Florence, Rome, Bombay and Delhi seem like some crazy technicolor slideshow that I sat through in a dark theater while drunk on absinthe as I lie here in this tiny living room flipping through bad daytime TV stations (oh, whether 'tis better to watch E! True Hollywood entertainment stories of Arnold Schwartzenegger and Maria Shriver or yet another episode of Law&Order? The indecision! The agony!), and searching the internet for signs and symptoms of Malaria to feed my hypochondria (I took tablets, but like a bad girl I stopped as soon as I got back).
Have been lunching with friends (this is what they'd call "networking" in b-school except that I have the unfortunate habit of only liking non-schmoozy types) and lazily picking up a few books, but my resolution to study some French has long gone out la fenêtre. Recently hopped up to Boston for a quick weekend reunion with college roomies, which has reinforced my impression that all memories and activities seem to revolve around food. We ate at our favorite haunts . . . and that was about it. This weekend I go home to California, and am looking forward to food, once again.
Okay, all this food is making me hungry, and I think the sweet potatoes in the oven are ready now.
Ta!
I still wonder at my own capacity to settle down into the comfort of a schedule. Ah, what a seductive mistress is Habit, eh? Not the most beautiful companion, she nonetheless has small white hands and an easy way of putting food in front of your face that makes her indispensable to the lazy, such that you don't even realize until it's too late that Passion and Inspiration have rolled their eyes and left your side, tired of your capricious wants and indecisive ways.
I am back in NYC, and loving the whole English-speaking country deal. Ah, the obnoxious accents that only here do not seem out of place! Not being gainfully employed for the summer, I am whiling away my hours by laying on my back on the zebra-print carpet with warm cat on my stomach, talking to Lulu (the cat) about existentialism, my future, and what to eat for dinner (which if you think about it, are different versions of the same thing). My exotic travels to Barcelona, Cote d'Azur, Florence, Rome, Bombay and Delhi seem like some crazy technicolor slideshow that I sat through in a dark theater while drunk on absinthe as I lie here in this tiny living room flipping through bad daytime TV stations (oh, whether 'tis better to watch E! True Hollywood entertainment stories of Arnold Schwartzenegger and Maria Shriver or yet another episode of Law&Order? The indecision! The agony!), and searching the internet for signs and symptoms of Malaria to feed my hypochondria (I took tablets, but like a bad girl I stopped as soon as I got back).
Have been lunching with friends (this is what they'd call "networking" in b-school except that I have the unfortunate habit of only liking non-schmoozy types) and lazily picking up a few books, but my resolution to study some French has long gone out la fenêtre. Recently hopped up to Boston for a quick weekend reunion with college roomies, which has reinforced my impression that all memories and activities seem to revolve around food. We ate at our favorite haunts . . . and that was about it. This weekend I go home to California, and am looking forward to food, once again.
Okay, all this food is making me hungry, and I think the sweet potatoes in the oven are ready now.
Ta!
Friday, July 23, 2004
Monday, July 12, 2004
My god, what has happened to me?
The last few weeks since school ended have been . . . well, there's no one word that I know which will capture it. There has been too much since then to write, and neither you nor I have the patience to read, so I'll keep it at snippets, in haphazardly chronological order.
. . . lying on my back and staring at the stars before the sun comes up as I realize that P3 is over, that the next day we are all leaving on our summer break, that INSEAD is more than half done, and that I am exhausted in every, every, every sense of the word . . .
. . . munching on a picnic of bread and cheese from the supermarket at a rest stop bench on the way between Fontainebleau and Barcelona with two buddies, smelling the summer heat and remembering car trips when I was a kid . . .
. . . screaming at the top of my lungs as a HUGE cockroach scrambled up the bathroom wall an inch from my face in our youth hostel in Barcelona . . .
. . . the sangria and tapas, fried cheese and bacon-wrapped dates at Ciudad Condal on Ramblas . . .
. . . sleeping, sticky from the car ride, with my feet sticking out of the car and watching the leaves and sunlight flash by my toes . . .
. . . staring out over the Cote d'Azur and feeling as if there ought to be a soundtrack for the view, with its red rooftops and white walls, its perfect Mediterranean and its heartbreaking hills . . .
. . . sipping Malibu and watching the slick dark waves in Juan les Pins and talking about God and growing up . . .
. . . sunbathing in Monaco on a rock, pretending that I don't care about the intense class distinctions I feel in this place. As I stare at the contrast between sandal and shorts-clad tourists and the designer-clad slickers coming out of the unspeakably expensive cars in front of the Monaco Casino, I feel that my world is very, very far away. . .
. . . A house painted all burgundy red with bright yellow trim in the setting sun on the road by the beach from Florence to Rome . . .
. . . the most beautiful coat in one of the Italian storefronts, a camel-colored thing with mandarin collars and multicolored buttons and sequins dancing across its hem . . .
. . . the houses on the bridge in Florence. What a lovely idea, to live suspended above flowing water, as if you are constantly on a journey . . .
. . . the obscene devotion and wealth and care and detail that is the Vatican, the lives that have grown, flamed, and faded with the centuries, now only grand empty ruins baking under the sun . . .
. . . taking shot after shot after shot (after awhile, we could only identify the color, not the liquor) and dancing deliriously, crazy on the tonic of seeing people I realized I truly counted as my friends . . .
. . . the dogs on the streets in Mumbai, sleeping or lounging or walking about, the beggars and the trash and the wear of the buildings, the cars and trains passing with listless but hungry eyes staring out . . .
. . . the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life, in the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life, at the poshest wedding I have ever been to in my life . . .
. . . dancing like a rock star in the VIP section of a club and being told I was lucky I had fallen sick the first day in India and could not smell anything anymore, because the place was rank the the odor of crowd and humidity . . .
. . . realizing that Bollywood is a a reflection of life here, and not the other way around . . .
. . . staring at my toes in the swimming pool at our hotel as the monsoon rains come sweeping down, crashing toward me in endless, inevitable waves, closing my eyes and still seeing the steamy morning light . . .
. . . feeling an intense hole in the pit of my stomach, because I don't think my life is the same anymore . . .
. . . swishing about in my gold bangles, with mendhi snaking over my palms and fingers and a rich red sari licking its way across my body, I don't think a dress has ever made me feel so lovely . . .
. . . missing the good old US of A, and not being able to wait to get home. The problem is just that after having been to so many places and lived for so long away, I don't know what home is anymore. Is it New York? California? Insead? My heart is in all three, and we'll see how it all shakes out.
The last few weeks since school ended have been . . . well, there's no one word that I know which will capture it. There has been too much since then to write, and neither you nor I have the patience to read, so I'll keep it at snippets, in haphazardly chronological order.
. . . lying on my back and staring at the stars before the sun comes up as I realize that P3 is over, that the next day we are all leaving on our summer break, that INSEAD is more than half done, and that I am exhausted in every, every, every sense of the word . . .
. . . munching on a picnic of bread and cheese from the supermarket at a rest stop bench on the way between Fontainebleau and Barcelona with two buddies, smelling the summer heat and remembering car trips when I was a kid . . .
. . . screaming at the top of my lungs as a HUGE cockroach scrambled up the bathroom wall an inch from my face in our youth hostel in Barcelona . . .
. . . the sangria and tapas, fried cheese and bacon-wrapped dates at Ciudad Condal on Ramblas . . .
. . . sleeping, sticky from the car ride, with my feet sticking out of the car and watching the leaves and sunlight flash by my toes . . .
. . . staring out over the Cote d'Azur and feeling as if there ought to be a soundtrack for the view, with its red rooftops and white walls, its perfect Mediterranean and its heartbreaking hills . . .
. . . sipping Malibu and watching the slick dark waves in Juan les Pins and talking about God and growing up . . .
. . . sunbathing in Monaco on a rock, pretending that I don't care about the intense class distinctions I feel in this place. As I stare at the contrast between sandal and shorts-clad tourists and the designer-clad slickers coming out of the unspeakably expensive cars in front of the Monaco Casino, I feel that my world is very, very far away. . .
. . . A house painted all burgundy red with bright yellow trim in the setting sun on the road by the beach from Florence to Rome . . .
. . . the most beautiful coat in one of the Italian storefronts, a camel-colored thing with mandarin collars and multicolored buttons and sequins dancing across its hem . . .
. . . the houses on the bridge in Florence. What a lovely idea, to live suspended above flowing water, as if you are constantly on a journey . . .
. . . the obscene devotion and wealth and care and detail that is the Vatican, the lives that have grown, flamed, and faded with the centuries, now only grand empty ruins baking under the sun . . .
. . . taking shot after shot after shot (after awhile, we could only identify the color, not the liquor) and dancing deliriously, crazy on the tonic of seeing people I realized I truly counted as my friends . . .
. . . the dogs on the streets in Mumbai, sleeping or lounging or walking about, the beggars and the trash and the wear of the buildings, the cars and trains passing with listless but hungry eyes staring out . . .
. . . the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life, in the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen in my life, at the poshest wedding I have ever been to in my life . . .
. . . dancing like a rock star in the VIP section of a club and being told I was lucky I had fallen sick the first day in India and could not smell anything anymore, because the place was rank the the odor of crowd and humidity . . .
. . . realizing that Bollywood is a a reflection of life here, and not the other way around . . .
. . . staring at my toes in the swimming pool at our hotel as the monsoon rains come sweeping down, crashing toward me in endless, inevitable waves, closing my eyes and still seeing the steamy morning light . . .
. . . feeling an intense hole in the pit of my stomach, because I don't think my life is the same anymore . . .
. . . swishing about in my gold bangles, with mendhi snaking over my palms and fingers and a rich red sari licking its way across my body, I don't think a dress has ever made me feel so lovely . . .
. . . missing the good old US of A, and not being able to wait to get home. The problem is just that after having been to so many places and lived for so long away, I don't know what home is anymore. Is it New York? California? Insead? My heart is in all three, and we'll see how it all shakes out.
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