There's a plant growing out of the back of one of our kitchen cabinets-- it's a healthy green thing, with waxen leaves springing up in pinnate abundance. I'm going to miss our funny looking chickens, the chunky geese, the waddling ducks and the doves under the eaves when I leave our farmhouse. Life's been hectic as usual, although I took time out to make myself a chinese breakfast of rice porridge and pickled bamboo shoots this morning. A few events of note--
A friend was in a horrible car accident. Fell asleep at the wheel while speeding back to Fontainebleau from Paris and managed to hit another car, flip his car over several times, and slam into the embankment without (miraculously) killing the other driver, any of the highway workers standing nearby, or himself! Unbelievable, but the guy walked out of his car without a scratch. Driving out at 2:30 in the morning to pick him up up where the police had dropped him off, I was so angry at his carelessness. It makes you think-- life is such a fragile thing, why do do we waste it sometimes by being so self-centered and useless? Yet another resolution for the future-- stop useless behavior in self whenever identified.
Went to a wedding shower today for a friend who's getting married over the summer. It was an appropriately girly event, with giggling and well-wishes and gifts of french lingerie for the bride-to-be. So many of the students here are at that age when they've just been married or are about to take the leap. This ain't college anymore, that's for sure. I wonder, if I were in some very remote place with nobody my own age against whom to set my life-clock, would I desire things like dating, sex, companionship, children, at different times? Earlier or later?
It's finals season again, and this one's a bitch. Papers as well as exams to worry about. Doesn't it seem like we're constantly in exam season here at INSEAD? Ugh, am looking to fail at least one of my classes-- have only attended about half of the sessions (I wish I were only exaggerating), and it doesn't look pretty.
This Friday was the Aussie/New Zealand week party, and it was a proper blast to party with the outgoing Septembers one last time. The boys and the music and the dancing podiums blur together, but I remember coming home and dropping my head into my pillow, then not being open even one eye until 4:00 the next afternoon (missed a sadistic 9:00 Saturday morning class, but we all could have predicted that).
Last week I met some exceptional people while preparing the American Week campaign. There are 7 groups vying for only 6 slots, so if American is the one cut out, I'd feel just horrible. What can you do when your president is the most unpopular guy in the world, and you attend an international MBA? I'll fight anyone who claims that there's no such thing as American culture. The US of A is an amazing place to be, and there's no mistaking when you're there. We all got so excited imagining all the awesome events we'd plan, the food, the music, the parties, the games . . . ai, never before in my life have I faced such a wall of unwillingness to believe. I should be grateful that all I have on the line is a recreational week, I suppose, and not my ideology or my global reputation. I'm a NYTimes girl, through and through. Spare me the Fox News, please. Eh, but politics is so depressing.
Speaking of which, it's time to get back to IPA studying. This class is going to kick my ass (and I wish it would get it over with already-- cannot wait until end of term and travelling!).
Monday, June 21, 2004
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Ugh. Feeling singularly uninspired and bloated. P3 is vicious and not nearly as fun as P1 or 2 (doesn’t help that the Septembers are all carefree and partying every night in their P5, and that the sun’s started beating down, sapping all my energy and stilling the air). Stayed at school until 4:30am last night/this morning fixing up a final group paper for Innovations class (40 pages long, with no agreement on styling or how to source references). Have cancelled a trip to Milan this weekend to shop for Italian shoes (mmm- yummy) because there’s just too much work and anyway could probably buy another pair of shoes just as well with the money saved on airfare and hotel. So this weekend will be a shopping weekend in gay Paris.
Other bad news—have just heard that the professor (a passionate, large English gent who smells like a combination of dusty mothballs and rancid body odor) for IPA (International Political Analysis) fails students who miss more than three classes. Have missed about six. Ech, I guess I won’t miss class on Monday as previously planned. Had wanted to visit the Indian Embassy in Paris, which (perfectly logically) is only open from 9:30-10:30am. Have I mentioned I will be spending two weeks at the beginning of my summer at a wedding in Bombay, then touring India with about ten other INSEADs? Will be a blast, can’t wait. Also, the plan to go to Singapore campus for P4 and P5 has been amended to just P5, because my travel buddy has (ahem) found love here on the Fontainebleau campus. Ah, well, I had been toying with the idea of staying for another period anyway, with the weather so beautiful and all. Will have to move out of my beloved farm house with the geese and chickens and ducks and doves, but the good news is I’ll be moving into a proper Chateau closer to campus, with a living room of my own.
On the party front, nothing to share—don’t think I’ve been properly sloshed for over a week—absolutely unheard of at INSEAD (and for me). Planning on remedying this situation ASAP, but first, am off home to sleep . . . after an wicked week of working late nights and ordering Pizza Pazza to our cubicle, my sleeve of care feels rather unraveled. Ta!
Other bad news—have just heard that the professor (a passionate, large English gent who smells like a combination of dusty mothballs and rancid body odor) for IPA (International Political Analysis) fails students who miss more than three classes. Have missed about six. Ech, I guess I won’t miss class on Monday as previously planned. Had wanted to visit the Indian Embassy in Paris, which (perfectly logically) is only open from 9:30-10:30am. Have I mentioned I will be spending two weeks at the beginning of my summer at a wedding in Bombay, then touring India with about ten other INSEADs? Will be a blast, can’t wait. Also, the plan to go to Singapore campus for P4 and P5 has been amended to just P5, because my travel buddy has (ahem) found love here on the Fontainebleau campus. Ah, well, I had been toying with the idea of staying for another period anyway, with the weather so beautiful and all. Will have to move out of my beloved farm house with the geese and chickens and ducks and doves, but the good news is I’ll be moving into a proper Chateau closer to campus, with a living room of my own.
On the party front, nothing to share—don’t think I’ve been properly sloshed for over a week—absolutely unheard of at INSEAD (and for me). Planning on remedying this situation ASAP, but first, am off home to sleep . . . after an wicked week of working late nights and ordering Pizza Pazza to our cubicle, my sleeve of care feels rather unraveled. Ta!
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Bipolar
Oy what a hectic couple of weeks. When I first got to INSEAD somebody joked that they could immediately tell who the new students were, because they were the bright-eyed and smiling ones without rings under their eyes. This was a shockingly true statement, as my drooping eyelids will attest to. Seems like life has been a series of devastating crises and exuberant highs lately, and while this may seem like business as usual to friends from high school and college, I’m honestly not up to it anymore. INSEAD living has destroyed the careful sense of equilibrium I built up with all the “maturing” I did at the most boring job on earth (read: i-banking) for the past couple of years.
Last week started off with losing my car keys on Monday night. Spent half an hour with a helpful but not so hapful student-cum-carthief and succeeded only in denting the frame of my car window. Got a ride home with a friend, and as we turned off our bright lights for an oncoming car, a fox materialized out of nowhere right in front of us. Like an old black and white movie the scene flickered and we were past, barely a bump felt or heard, and horrified, I saw the scared eyes of two or three fuzzy baby foxes peeping out from the grass by the roadside as we sailed by. There was a car on our tail, and I spent the rest of the trip home agonizing about whether to stop, and then agonizing that it was too late and pointless anyway. Then I got home, and found out that the boyfriend was swamped at work and could not come for the week-long vacation as previously planned, that the trip might be cut to 24 hours. When it rains, it pours, so I closed my brain to the static and focused on the paper that was due the next day.
Spent all night on the thing, falling in and out of sleep, and at school the next morning, as I was gloomily polishing off the last section a few hours before the deadline, my screen flickered and told me my computer was going to shut down in 1 minute. Hmm. Not a problem—until it didn’t turn back on again. Was informed by the IT office that my computer had been infected by a virus (surprising, they said, everyone’s had this one already. You must not bring your computer in very often- oh, c'est humoureux, non?), there was nothing they could recover, and my hard drive was officially 0 megabytes. It’s official, there is a God, and he’s punishing me for not believing in him.
The teacher gives me an extension, for which I’m grateful, but the aggravation meter is still, as you may imagine, quite high. That evening, I find my keys on the main help desk, and discover that the boyfriend can come for a little longer than expected—about 48 hours. So things are looking, if not up, at least not deathly. That night, after an exhausting negotiation assignment with two shifty and unpleasant counterparties, I have the dubious pleasure of being the last person on campus at 3:45am while I finish a paper (another one), and take the long drive home. No foxes this time (or on the way to school for that matter—hopefully it didn’t go under the wheels and was not seriously injured?).
The next day, I rewrite the first paper in a foul mood, but as soon as I hit the send button, my life has miraculously improved. The evening is spent drowned in tequila shots and vodka tonics at the “playboy mansion” party, and I receive multiple mysterious bruises on my shins and knees—am told later that this must be from dirty dancing on the marble tabletop. The next night is effectively Friday, since there are no scheduled classes due to private equity day (bleh). Attend a “temptation island” themed party wearing a bathing suit and a sarong—wonderfully versatile article of clothing, the sarong is—as conservative or revealing as you like, depending on how you tie it. The party started quite early and ended quite late, and overall was an absolute blast—everybody dressed all in white, quick dips into the river (I didn’t go in beyond my stomach, was too cold), and lots and lots of hot dogs (have I mentioned that I love hot dogs?). As the night wore on, the sarong wore off.
Friday was spent sleeping and recuperating, fixing the hem on my dress for the summer ball, waiting for evening to come so that I could go to sleep so that I could pick up the boyfriend early in the morning. But that would be too idyllic, wouldn’t it? I get a phone call at midnight, and apparently the boy has missed his flight, next flight out is oversold, who knows if he’ll get here? Heart attack? No. Ominous stillness buzzing in the back of my head? Quite.
But you’ve got to give the guy points for effort. He books another flight with British Airways, hops over to Heathrow, and then takes the Eurostar to Paris by 3:00pm the next day. His luggage didn’t have time to be transferred, so his tuxedo is still in Newark. We rush around Paris and find a tuxedo rental place that just happened to have something available in his size. We sit down for an appetizer of oysters in the spring sunlight before we train it back home.
And oh dear, but summerball was wonderful. Overcrowded and underfooded, but the castle and the dresses and the fireworks! I couldn’t complain. I had my honey and I had my friends, and my dress was sparkly—I was completely happy all night, even if at 5:30 my feet were in rebellion.
But then, but then, all good things come to an end. Sunday flew by, and today it’s Monday again. Another round of classes and catch-up, of papers and scheduling. No warm body in my bed, no visit to look forward to. Sigh. But hey, it’s not so bad. After a few rather low-key Monday night dinners, we’ve decided to turn it up a notch, so tonight’s affair should be exciting. The last period before summer break seems to be drawing to a close rather quickly, and I still honestly have no idea what’s going on in any of my classes (can kiss goodbye to dean’s list if I don’t start attending 8:30 classes soon, and as one of two honorary females on the list, I feel a certain estrogenous oblige to continue the fluke).
That’s the report this semaine. Time to go buy wine again-- is it summer yet?
Oy what a hectic couple of weeks. When I first got to INSEAD somebody joked that they could immediately tell who the new students were, because they were the bright-eyed and smiling ones without rings under their eyes. This was a shockingly true statement, as my drooping eyelids will attest to. Seems like life has been a series of devastating crises and exuberant highs lately, and while this may seem like business as usual to friends from high school and college, I’m honestly not up to it anymore. INSEAD living has destroyed the careful sense of equilibrium I built up with all the “maturing” I did at the most boring job on earth (read: i-banking) for the past couple of years.
Last week started off with losing my car keys on Monday night. Spent half an hour with a helpful but not so hapful student-cum-carthief and succeeded only in denting the frame of my car window. Got a ride home with a friend, and as we turned off our bright lights for an oncoming car, a fox materialized out of nowhere right in front of us. Like an old black and white movie the scene flickered and we were past, barely a bump felt or heard, and horrified, I saw the scared eyes of two or three fuzzy baby foxes peeping out from the grass by the roadside as we sailed by. There was a car on our tail, and I spent the rest of the trip home agonizing about whether to stop, and then agonizing that it was too late and pointless anyway. Then I got home, and found out that the boyfriend was swamped at work and could not come for the week-long vacation as previously planned, that the trip might be cut to 24 hours. When it rains, it pours, so I closed my brain to the static and focused on the paper that was due the next day.
Spent all night on the thing, falling in and out of sleep, and at school the next morning, as I was gloomily polishing off the last section a few hours before the deadline, my screen flickered and told me my computer was going to shut down in 1 minute. Hmm. Not a problem—until it didn’t turn back on again. Was informed by the IT office that my computer had been infected by a virus (surprising, they said, everyone’s had this one already. You must not bring your computer in very often- oh, c'est humoureux, non?), there was nothing they could recover, and my hard drive was officially 0 megabytes. It’s official, there is a God, and he’s punishing me for not believing in him.
The teacher gives me an extension, for which I’m grateful, but the aggravation meter is still, as you may imagine, quite high. That evening, I find my keys on the main help desk, and discover that the boyfriend can come for a little longer than expected—about 48 hours. So things are looking, if not up, at least not deathly. That night, after an exhausting negotiation assignment with two shifty and unpleasant counterparties, I have the dubious pleasure of being the last person on campus at 3:45am while I finish a paper (another one), and take the long drive home. No foxes this time (or on the way to school for that matter—hopefully it didn’t go under the wheels and was not seriously injured?).
The next day, I rewrite the first paper in a foul mood, but as soon as I hit the send button, my life has miraculously improved. The evening is spent drowned in tequila shots and vodka tonics at the “playboy mansion” party, and I receive multiple mysterious bruises on my shins and knees—am told later that this must be from dirty dancing on the marble tabletop. The next night is effectively Friday, since there are no scheduled classes due to private equity day (bleh). Attend a “temptation island” themed party wearing a bathing suit and a sarong—wonderfully versatile article of clothing, the sarong is—as conservative or revealing as you like, depending on how you tie it. The party started quite early and ended quite late, and overall was an absolute blast—everybody dressed all in white, quick dips into the river (I didn’t go in beyond my stomach, was too cold), and lots and lots of hot dogs (have I mentioned that I love hot dogs?). As the night wore on, the sarong wore off.
Friday was spent sleeping and recuperating, fixing the hem on my dress for the summer ball, waiting for evening to come so that I could go to sleep so that I could pick up the boyfriend early in the morning. But that would be too idyllic, wouldn’t it? I get a phone call at midnight, and apparently the boy has missed his flight, next flight out is oversold, who knows if he’ll get here? Heart attack? No. Ominous stillness buzzing in the back of my head? Quite.
But you’ve got to give the guy points for effort. He books another flight with British Airways, hops over to Heathrow, and then takes the Eurostar to Paris by 3:00pm the next day. His luggage didn’t have time to be transferred, so his tuxedo is still in Newark. We rush around Paris and find a tuxedo rental place that just happened to have something available in his size. We sit down for an appetizer of oysters in the spring sunlight before we train it back home.
And oh dear, but summerball was wonderful. Overcrowded and underfooded, but the castle and the dresses and the fireworks! I couldn’t complain. I had my honey and I had my friends, and my dress was sparkly—I was completely happy all night, even if at 5:30 my feet were in rebellion.
But then, but then, all good things come to an end. Sunday flew by, and today it’s Monday again. Another round of classes and catch-up, of papers and scheduling. No warm body in my bed, no visit to look forward to. Sigh. But hey, it’s not so bad. After a few rather low-key Monday night dinners, we’ve decided to turn it up a notch, so tonight’s affair should be exciting. The last period before summer break seems to be drawing to a close rather quickly, and I still honestly have no idea what’s going on in any of my classes (can kiss goodbye to dean’s list if I don’t start attending 8:30 classes soon, and as one of two honorary females on the list, I feel a certain estrogenous oblige to continue the fluke).
That’s the report this semaine. Time to go buy wine again-- is it summer yet?
Monday, May 24, 2004
Sweet smell of formals
Am supposed to be writing one of the two reports I have due tomorrow, but am in no mood to do work. For one thing, my toes are cold—the sun’s still out, but the temperature has dipped mysteriously, starting yesterday.
Last Friday was Cabaret, our little INSEAD song and dance and skit extravaganza—shockingly enough, it went off beautifully, in spite of most acts not having ever had a complete run through until right before the show (in the case of our act, not until we were actually on stage). Nonetheless, a terrific time was had by all, and many acts were brilliant. The ones that weren’t so brilliant . . . well, we easily condone bad acting when it’s all in the family. I was in charge of intermission and distributing pizzas to 400 hungry MBAs in 15 minutes. Used the concepts I learned in POM (Process and Operations Management) to increase throughput, combined with plenty of old fashioned yelling and scolding. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I’ve gotten here, it is that MBAs are a deeply selfish bunch. These are confident individuals who are well-convinced of their own value, who do not appreciate being reminded that there are hungry people behind them and could they please take just one piece and make their friends get in line themselves? MBA nature used to distress me, but I’ve realized that it’s not so bad once you’ve incorporated this assumption into your operating plan.
After Cabaret we all headed off to Chateau Bellefontaine for the Latin American week party—so much fun! After my mishap of last week, it was a welcome relief to finally step into the fog-hazy crowd and order my vodka tonic, feeling the bass beat thrum through my fingertips. Oh, did we dance! Until about 5:40am, when they turned on the lights and kicked us out. Heard there was an afterparty at someone’s house, but call me a party pooper, I thought it was high time for bed.
Next afternoon, woke up at a friend’s house, and we three girls all spontaneously developed an intense craving for (what else?) oysters! A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do—we booked it to Paris to Le Bar à Huitres, and shared a planche of 36 jewels of the sea . . . that first sweetly briny slurp? Pure pure heaven. Like I said, I could eat oysters for every meal for the rest of my life. What food what you choose?
Afterwards we watched Troy (or Troie, as they call it here)—not the best movie, but considering my longtime love affair with the Homeric stories, I was actually not offended by the liberties they took with the plot. I feel like the director did his best to maintain the heroic and deeply tragic themes. Too bad you can’t fit seventeen years of adventure into three hours without making the whole thing unbelievable and choppy.
Ech, but that brings me back to today. ‘Tis a party week, and the boyfriend arrives on Friday for the summer ball this weekend! You can see how this kills all motivation to do work. All I can do is obsess about my outfit (ah, in typical girly fashion). What does one wear to a playboy party besides the ears? And a temptation island party? And then most of all, to the summer ball? Sweet agony, the flutter of chiffon and the glitter of beading strewn all over my bed, hostages of my indecision!
Am supposed to be writing one of the two reports I have due tomorrow, but am in no mood to do work. For one thing, my toes are cold—the sun’s still out, but the temperature has dipped mysteriously, starting yesterday.
Last Friday was Cabaret, our little INSEAD song and dance and skit extravaganza—shockingly enough, it went off beautifully, in spite of most acts not having ever had a complete run through until right before the show (in the case of our act, not until we were actually on stage). Nonetheless, a terrific time was had by all, and many acts were brilliant. The ones that weren’t so brilliant . . . well, we easily condone bad acting when it’s all in the family. I was in charge of intermission and distributing pizzas to 400 hungry MBAs in 15 minutes. Used the concepts I learned in POM (Process and Operations Management) to increase throughput, combined with plenty of old fashioned yelling and scolding. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I’ve gotten here, it is that MBAs are a deeply selfish bunch. These are confident individuals who are well-convinced of their own value, who do not appreciate being reminded that there are hungry people behind them and could they please take just one piece and make their friends get in line themselves? MBA nature used to distress me, but I’ve realized that it’s not so bad once you’ve incorporated this assumption into your operating plan.
After Cabaret we all headed off to Chateau Bellefontaine for the Latin American week party—so much fun! After my mishap of last week, it was a welcome relief to finally step into the fog-hazy crowd and order my vodka tonic, feeling the bass beat thrum through my fingertips. Oh, did we dance! Until about 5:40am, when they turned on the lights and kicked us out. Heard there was an afterparty at someone’s house, but call me a party pooper, I thought it was high time for bed.
Next afternoon, woke up at a friend’s house, and we three girls all spontaneously developed an intense craving for (what else?) oysters! A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do—we booked it to Paris to Le Bar à Huitres, and shared a planche of 36 jewels of the sea . . . that first sweetly briny slurp? Pure pure heaven. Like I said, I could eat oysters for every meal for the rest of my life. What food what you choose?
Afterwards we watched Troy (or Troie, as they call it here)—not the best movie, but considering my longtime love affair with the Homeric stories, I was actually not offended by the liberties they took with the plot. I feel like the director did his best to maintain the heroic and deeply tragic themes. Too bad you can’t fit seventeen years of adventure into three hours without making the whole thing unbelievable and choppy.
Ech, but that brings me back to today. ‘Tis a party week, and the boyfriend arrives on Friday for the summer ball this weekend! You can see how this kills all motivation to do work. All I can do is obsess about my outfit (ah, in typical girly fashion). What does one wear to a playboy party besides the ears? And a temptation island party? And then most of all, to the summer ball? Sweet agony, the flutter of chiffon and the glitter of beading strewn all over my bed, hostages of my indecision!
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Bad Luck Biddies
Over drinks in town tonight I found out the definition of a dirty sanchez. Plus a bean flicker. Plus teabagging. Ah the lovely sharing of international knowledge that goes on in this institution of higher learning(although I admit, I already knew about teabagging was, I suppose my friends have always been dirty). A leaves tomorrow, hopefully on time for her flight (I admit, I do not have the best track record of getting friends to the airport on time. I’m 2 for 2 in terms of making my guests miss their flights).
However, perhaps it is high time that she left, because since she's arrived we've had misfortune after misfortune. We started off with that silly car accident on Thursday. Then, on Saturday (incidentally, my twenty-fifth birthday), we walked around Paris looking for something to wear to the big Montmelian Las Vegas-themed party that night. Our feet hurt from our heels (which we’d worn out the previous evening), and it got so bad that eventually, we were forced to buy replacements. I bought a pair of clear plastic sandals with pink sequins on the thong part, and A bought a pair of lavender and purple puma flipflops with soft fabric straps. Our footaches thus assuaged, we continued our trek around Paris to the Pompidou, where we checked out the Joan Miró exhibit. I’m probably just not cultured enough to appreciate modern art, but it started to bore me stiff half way through, and I thought that most of his scribblings were silly. A, being the liberal artsy graphic design student that she is, pointed out that his backgrounds were shaded beautifully, all hazy and soft—I agree, but that’s still not a reason to put stick figures on display. We entertained ourselves by having 1-minute races around the rooms to compare favorites. After this, footsore and tired and sticky, we rushed to Gare de Lyon, only to miss the train home by one minute. We then could not figure out the ticket machines (we were at the wrong billeteries- remember that the local ones are blue, the others are yellow), and so missed the train again fifteen minutes later. Then, finally, half an hour after that, we gratefully rushed onto the 18:56 train. Hm, I thought, this train is so much nicer than the usual local rail! We settled in, and happily called my friends to let them know I’d be back in town in time for my birthday dinner, could they please pick me up. The train edged gently out of the the station, and we had just started to make ourselves comfortable when I caught something funny over the intercom, something about “Lyon . . .”
Yes, yes, you are not hearing it wrong, and neither was I. I was on the TGV (Train de Grande Vitesse) for Lyon, about 600 kilometers south of my intended destination. Imagine the dismay of all involved (me, A., my friends who were coming to dinner for my birthday, the conductor who had to deal with these two distraught, incomprehensible babbling girls) when we learned that yes, I was headed on the high speed train to Lyon; no, there were no more trains back that night; no, there was no feasible train to get me back in the vicinity before the next morning. We rapidly cycled through the various stages of grief—denial, dismay, bargaining, anger, and finally acceptance. None of this was easy as we found ourselves trudging from the gare at Lyon-Perrache to the Grand Victoria Hotel—I’ll attach a photo when I figure out how. It was priceless—the seediest thing you can imagine, but it was right by the train station, and by God we weren’t going to miss another train the next morning! With the European version of American Idol coming from the little TV in the corner, and A and me lounging about on the somewhat suspicious sheets— cracking pistachio nuts and chewing through dried dates from the convenience store—I bemoaned my fate on the precious bit of phone battery we had left, and declared this the WORST BIRTHDAY EVER.
I'm still getting over it, although everyone I tell thinks that this was hilarious.
Oh right. There was the tres successful Monday night dinner which took A and me the entire day to prepare—accomplished only by forgoing two classes (moi) and seeing the Louvre (elle). The menu: asparagus, roasted red pepper, and goat cheese salad; grilled duck brochettes in orange glaze; and rum-soaked prune flan. The flavors were all agreed together fantastically, and the portions, French. A miscalculation of the belly capacity of strapping young men-- one of the first times there really was an undersupply of food. Ehhhh, when in France…
And there’s so much left to do! A Barbeque tomorrow, Salsa-Merengue contest this Thursday, Cabaret and the Latin-American party this Friday . . . and three or four assignments, too! Oy vey oy vey oy vey. Time to go to sleep so I can start my denial phase of this week’s work. Buona notte!
Over drinks in town tonight I found out the definition of a dirty sanchez. Plus a bean flicker. Plus teabagging. Ah the lovely sharing of international knowledge that goes on in this institution of higher learning(although I admit, I already knew about teabagging was, I suppose my friends have always been dirty). A leaves tomorrow, hopefully on time for her flight (I admit, I do not have the best track record of getting friends to the airport on time. I’m 2 for 2 in terms of making my guests miss their flights).
However, perhaps it is high time that she left, because since she's arrived we've had misfortune after misfortune. We started off with that silly car accident on Thursday. Then, on Saturday (incidentally, my twenty-fifth birthday), we walked around Paris looking for something to wear to the big Montmelian Las Vegas-themed party that night. Our feet hurt from our heels (which we’d worn out the previous evening), and it got so bad that eventually, we were forced to buy replacements. I bought a pair of clear plastic sandals with pink sequins on the thong part, and A bought a pair of lavender and purple puma flipflops with soft fabric straps. Our footaches thus assuaged, we continued our trek around Paris to the Pompidou, where we checked out the Joan Miró exhibit. I’m probably just not cultured enough to appreciate modern art, but it started to bore me stiff half way through, and I thought that most of his scribblings were silly. A, being the liberal artsy graphic design student that she is, pointed out that his backgrounds were shaded beautifully, all hazy and soft—I agree, but that’s still not a reason to put stick figures on display. We entertained ourselves by having 1-minute races around the rooms to compare favorites. After this, footsore and tired and sticky, we rushed to Gare de Lyon, only to miss the train home by one minute. We then could not figure out the ticket machines (we were at the wrong billeteries- remember that the local ones are blue, the others are yellow), and so missed the train again fifteen minutes later. Then, finally, half an hour after that, we gratefully rushed onto the 18:56 train. Hm, I thought, this train is so much nicer than the usual local rail! We settled in, and happily called my friends to let them know I’d be back in town in time for my birthday dinner, could they please pick me up. The train edged gently out of the the station, and we had just started to make ourselves comfortable when I caught something funny over the intercom, something about “Lyon . . .”
Yes, yes, you are not hearing it wrong, and neither was I. I was on the TGV (Train de Grande Vitesse) for Lyon, about 600 kilometers south of my intended destination. Imagine the dismay of all involved (me, A., my friends who were coming to dinner for my birthday, the conductor who had to deal with these two distraught, incomprehensible babbling girls) when we learned that yes, I was headed on the high speed train to Lyon; no, there were no more trains back that night; no, there was no feasible train to get me back in the vicinity before the next morning. We rapidly cycled through the various stages of grief—denial, dismay, bargaining, anger, and finally acceptance. None of this was easy as we found ourselves trudging from the gare at Lyon-Perrache to the Grand Victoria Hotel—I’ll attach a photo when I figure out how. It was priceless—the seediest thing you can imagine, but it was right by the train station, and by God we weren’t going to miss another train the next morning! With the European version of American Idol coming from the little TV in the corner, and A and me lounging about on the somewhat suspicious sheets— cracking pistachio nuts and chewing through dried dates from the convenience store—I bemoaned my fate on the precious bit of phone battery we had left, and declared this the WORST BIRTHDAY EVER.
I'm still getting over it, although everyone I tell thinks that this was hilarious.
Oh right. There was the tres successful Monday night dinner which took A and me the entire day to prepare—accomplished only by forgoing two classes (moi) and seeing the Louvre (elle). The menu: asparagus, roasted red pepper, and goat cheese salad; grilled duck brochettes in orange glaze; and rum-soaked prune flan. The flavors were all agreed together fantastically, and the portions, French. A miscalculation of the belly capacity of strapping young men-- one of the first times there really was an undersupply of food. Ehhhh, when in France…
And there’s so much left to do! A Barbeque tomorrow, Salsa-Merengue contest this Thursday, Cabaret and the Latin-American party this Friday . . . and three or four assignments, too! Oy vey oy vey oy vey. Time to go to sleep so I can start my denial phase of this week’s work. Buona notte!
Friday, May 14, 2004
Crash-happy
P3 is madness. I’ve been taken from my one group of 6 for five classes to juggling four groups of 6 to 8 for six classes. There is no time to do anything except meet, plan to meet, and plan to plan to meet, since there are multiple projects, all group based, for each class rushing at us at 100mph. On top of this, place the parties, dinners, and general “we deserve to chill out” mood of beginning of term, and you have me disastrously behind, worried about I don’t know what, because I know I’m missing something, but I can’t be bothered to decipher my mess of a schedule.
Next week is Cabaret, a big student-run variety show, which I’m helping to organize. Rehearsals have got me going nuts, plus one of my best friends is in town from NY, plus there are huge parties this Friday and Saturday . . . plus the sun has finally peeked out today after a week of depressing rain—how’s a girl supposed to get anything done around here?
Proof of the fact that I’m distracted? Witness my poor little Peugeot 206, which has a brand new dent in its (now not so) shiny hood. It was my fault, really, I admit it. I was tailgating a station wagon along a windy road by the Seine, rushing to my Negotiation class (taught by this amazing guy who won’t let you in if you’re two minutes late). There are these areas where the road narrows to one lane, even though there is two-way traffic (I think it’s the French way of saying, “drive slower,” but this, like all other French road laws, makes no rational sense to anyone who is not French). On one of these areas where we had right of way, I didn’t expect the station wagon to come to a screeching halt all of a sudden (didn’t see the car that was illegally zooming toward it, since the station wagon was so large). What happens? These two cars stop, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision, but I crash ignominiously into the back of said station wagon. EURGH. Fortunately for all involved, nothing was even scratched except my poor little car hood (properly crunched). As I have complete, no-questions-asked coverage, I tried to explain in very poor French to Peneloppe, the lady who caused the accident, that it was okay, I didn’t want to report, could I please just go because I was very late to class?
And the kicker—I was 15 minutes late, burst into the classroom, to his disapproving glower I spurted, “I’m sorry, but I had a car accident!” The response? “That is neither a birth certificate, death certificate, or marriage certificate.” Ah, cantankerous professors, you’ve gotta love them. So I left with my face burning. Fortunately, I was able to make it to the next class by skipping another elective.
And that’s the report from Fontainebleau, folks. Will I ever achieve responsible maturity? Don’t think I can muster it by tomorrow, which is my 25th birthday. Imagine that! A quarter century!
P3 is madness. I’ve been taken from my one group of 6 for five classes to juggling four groups of 6 to 8 for six classes. There is no time to do anything except meet, plan to meet, and plan to plan to meet, since there are multiple projects, all group based, for each class rushing at us at 100mph. On top of this, place the parties, dinners, and general “we deserve to chill out” mood of beginning of term, and you have me disastrously behind, worried about I don’t know what, because I know I’m missing something, but I can’t be bothered to decipher my mess of a schedule.
Next week is Cabaret, a big student-run variety show, which I’m helping to organize. Rehearsals have got me going nuts, plus one of my best friends is in town from NY, plus there are huge parties this Friday and Saturday . . . plus the sun has finally peeked out today after a week of depressing rain—how’s a girl supposed to get anything done around here?
Proof of the fact that I’m distracted? Witness my poor little Peugeot 206, which has a brand new dent in its (now not so) shiny hood. It was my fault, really, I admit it. I was tailgating a station wagon along a windy road by the Seine, rushing to my Negotiation class (taught by this amazing guy who won’t let you in if you’re two minutes late). There are these areas where the road narrows to one lane, even though there is two-way traffic (I think it’s the French way of saying, “drive slower,” but this, like all other French road laws, makes no rational sense to anyone who is not French). On one of these areas where we had right of way, I didn’t expect the station wagon to come to a screeching halt all of a sudden (didn’t see the car that was illegally zooming toward it, since the station wagon was so large). What happens? These two cars stop, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision, but I crash ignominiously into the back of said station wagon. EURGH. Fortunately for all involved, nothing was even scratched except my poor little car hood (properly crunched). As I have complete, no-questions-asked coverage, I tried to explain in very poor French to Peneloppe, the lady who caused the accident, that it was okay, I didn’t want to report, could I please just go because I was very late to class?
And the kicker—I was 15 minutes late, burst into the classroom, to his disapproving glower I spurted, “I’m sorry, but I had a car accident!” The response? “That is neither a birth certificate, death certificate, or marriage certificate.” Ah, cantankerous professors, you’ve gotta love them. So I left with my face burning. Fortunately, I was able to make it to the next class by skipping another elective.
And that’s the report from Fontainebleau, folks. Will I ever achieve responsible maturity? Don’t think I can muster it by tomorrow, which is my 25th birthday. Imagine that! A quarter century!
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Monday, May 03, 2004
Holiday
Guess who’s sitting nekked at her kitchen table with the sun dappling in across the yellow tablecloth? I’m happy as a clam, surrounded by the gurgling washing machine and the rumbling dryer on one side while the hot water heater chortles and a pot of rice porridge bubbles on the other. Today is an unexpected holiday (serves me right for not checking before I planned my vacation—no school today, apparently!) I suppose I ought to be kicking myself, because I could have spent a whole extra day in London, but seeing as how the boyfriend probably couldn’t have gotten an extra day off of his silly Wall Street job anyway, combined with the fact that I’m stocked up on a few good books, plus the unspeakably gorgeous weather here . . . I can’t complain ;). London was as everyone told me it would be—quirky, expensive, rainy and cold. I liked walking around Notting Hill—reminded me a bit of San Francisco. The number of cool shoe shops was unbelievable, and even riding the bus was a nifty touristy experience. We were both thrown off by napping the first day, though (him because of the time difference, me because of not having gotten any sleep), and never could adjust our internal clocks properly. We slept clear though dinner on Saturday and didn’t wake up until 2:00am! Thank goodness for mini-bars and room service.
And tomorrow, the start of a new period, with new elective classes, with scattered sections, without about 30 classmates who will be in Singapore. Coming back on the Eurostar I felt nothing so much as a petulant nostalgia. INSEAD is going by so quickly, with each two-month period just long enough to get a couple mouthfuls of partying and playing and possibilities before we suddenly realize that it’s time to cram for finals again. As much fun as I know I will have, it makes me tired to think of the rinse repeat for the third time. Thank goodness for this day of rest, huh? Mmm . . . am done with my 2:00pm breakfast now, and have in my mouth a “honey flavour pine ‘Berlingots’”candy drop from Fauchon. It goes well with Tetley’s Earl Grey Tea. Today is just clear too beautiful to be true. All the trees in the yard are a riot of pink apple blossoms, and the ducks and geese and chickens are cackling quacking cockadoodling away like there’s no tomorrow. Little cream colored butterflies flit across the fields outside my window, and my hammock calls . . . Who knows if I’ll make to the river today? Perhaps I’ll just sit here and sketch the chickens. The books I have to choose from: Life of Pi, Sophie’s World, Foucault’s Pendulum. Plus have to do about three more loads of laundry (have already done two). If I were really gung-ho, I’d go to school and pick up my P3 coursepack and do the readings, but that would require me to remember that I’m doing an MBA. Maybe tomorrow, today’s for living like I own a beautiful house in the French countryside. Goodbye, and I wish you weather as nice as mine!
Guess who’s sitting nekked at her kitchen table with the sun dappling in across the yellow tablecloth? I’m happy as a clam, surrounded by the gurgling washing machine and the rumbling dryer on one side while the hot water heater chortles and a pot of rice porridge bubbles on the other. Today is an unexpected holiday (serves me right for not checking before I planned my vacation—no school today, apparently!) I suppose I ought to be kicking myself, because I could have spent a whole extra day in London, but seeing as how the boyfriend probably couldn’t have gotten an extra day off of his silly Wall Street job anyway, combined with the fact that I’m stocked up on a few good books, plus the unspeakably gorgeous weather here . . . I can’t complain ;). London was as everyone told me it would be—quirky, expensive, rainy and cold. I liked walking around Notting Hill—reminded me a bit of San Francisco. The number of cool shoe shops was unbelievable, and even riding the bus was a nifty touristy experience. We were both thrown off by napping the first day, though (him because of the time difference, me because of not having gotten any sleep), and never could adjust our internal clocks properly. We slept clear though dinner on Saturday and didn’t wake up until 2:00am! Thank goodness for mini-bars and room service.
And tomorrow, the start of a new period, with new elective classes, with scattered sections, without about 30 classmates who will be in Singapore. Coming back on the Eurostar I felt nothing so much as a petulant nostalgia. INSEAD is going by so quickly, with each two-month period just long enough to get a couple mouthfuls of partying and playing and possibilities before we suddenly realize that it’s time to cram for finals again. As much fun as I know I will have, it makes me tired to think of the rinse repeat for the third time. Thank goodness for this day of rest, huh? Mmm . . . am done with my 2:00pm breakfast now, and have in my mouth a “honey flavour pine ‘Berlingots’”candy drop from Fauchon. It goes well with Tetley’s Earl Grey Tea. Today is just clear too beautiful to be true. All the trees in the yard are a riot of pink apple blossoms, and the ducks and geese and chickens are cackling quacking cockadoodling away like there’s no tomorrow. Little cream colored butterflies flit across the fields outside my window, and my hammock calls . . . Who knows if I’ll make to the river today? Perhaps I’ll just sit here and sketch the chickens. The books I have to choose from: Life of Pi, Sophie’s World, Foucault’s Pendulum. Plus have to do about three more loads of laundry (have already done two). If I were really gung-ho, I’d go to school and pick up my P3 coursepack and do the readings, but that would require me to remember that I’m doing an MBA. Maybe tomorrow, today’s for living like I own a beautiful house in the French countryside. Goodbye, and I wish you weather as nice as mine!
Saturday, May 01, 2004
Out of sight, out of . . .
No more papers, no more books . . . am in London! Forgot to pack socks, smushing around in my sneakers right now. Will maybe run to Gap and pick up a pair. Ah, but it feels good to be on vacation, no matter how short. Last weekend was absolutely gorgeous, but it seems like ages ago now. The sun over the French countryside just sang down from perfect blue skies, and even if six final exams were hanging over my head, I couldn't help but run out for picnic lunches :). Since all my housemates are Septembers, my house was completely empty the whole week (their break starts earlier than ours), so I packed my bags and slept over at one of the Chateaux where a bunch of friends live. Not bad, having Versailles-like grounds at your door.
Finals were all right. Once again, I'm pretty sure accounting will be my worst grade, and it was a fairly awful way to enter exams. The strategy final was about some ice cream manufacturer in Moscow, and my suggestions of making the manufacturing plant into a tourist attraction and sponsoring winter ice-cream eating contests were, to say the least, not echoed by my classmates when we compared notes after the exam. Ah, well, I'm cursed with the inability to think inside the box (trust me, this is not the boon it immediately sounds). POM exam was straightforward, if long, and I'm afraid the curve will be fairly rough on all of us. Finance was rather rough- there were a few moments when I had no idea how to even start, but then I hunkered down, and at least wrote something for each problem. The marketing exam was relaxed for everyone, since it was on the last day and the worst of the quantitative tests were over. The OB exam went much better than expected, considering the volatile dynamics of my group, and our strategy of having just two writers with two diagram helpers each made for a much more coherent paper than last term's melange of a disaster.
Ah, but now it's hard to even remember what finals were like . . . London is true to form, with dreary drippy weather, cheerful cozy service at our boutique hotel in Little Venice, and funny accents galore. Watching people in the tube, I think the English make for much better people-watching than do New Yorkers. In New York, everyone, believing he/she is constantly observed, is busy pretending that nobody else exists. Here, most people seem to have no awareness that they might be watched. The number of funny grimaces, ticks, and odd gaping looks is amazing. Everyone is a Mr.Bean.
I have to tell you all about staying up all night on Thursday after the last final, and getting soaked in Paris and dirty dancing at Doobie's and having my top fall apart and saying a very, very sad farewell to those going to Singapore for P3, and taking the Eurostar and the lovely heated towel rack at my hotel . . . but who knows when credit on this machine runs out, so for now, I'm off . . . cheerio!
No more papers, no more books . . . am in London! Forgot to pack socks, smushing around in my sneakers right now. Will maybe run to Gap and pick up a pair. Ah, but it feels good to be on vacation, no matter how short. Last weekend was absolutely gorgeous, but it seems like ages ago now. The sun over the French countryside just sang down from perfect blue skies, and even if six final exams were hanging over my head, I couldn't help but run out for picnic lunches :). Since all my housemates are Septembers, my house was completely empty the whole week (their break starts earlier than ours), so I packed my bags and slept over at one of the Chateaux where a bunch of friends live. Not bad, having Versailles-like grounds at your door.
Finals were all right. Once again, I'm pretty sure accounting will be my worst grade, and it was a fairly awful way to enter exams. The strategy final was about some ice cream manufacturer in Moscow, and my suggestions of making the manufacturing plant into a tourist attraction and sponsoring winter ice-cream eating contests were, to say the least, not echoed by my classmates when we compared notes after the exam. Ah, well, I'm cursed with the inability to think inside the box (trust me, this is not the boon it immediately sounds). POM exam was straightforward, if long, and I'm afraid the curve will be fairly rough on all of us. Finance was rather rough- there were a few moments when I had no idea how to even start, but then I hunkered down, and at least wrote something for each problem. The marketing exam was relaxed for everyone, since it was on the last day and the worst of the quantitative tests were over. The OB exam went much better than expected, considering the volatile dynamics of my group, and our strategy of having just two writers with two diagram helpers each made for a much more coherent paper than last term's melange of a disaster.
Ah, but now it's hard to even remember what finals were like . . . London is true to form, with dreary drippy weather, cheerful cozy service at our boutique hotel in Little Venice, and funny accents galore. Watching people in the tube, I think the English make for much better people-watching than do New Yorkers. In New York, everyone, believing he/she is constantly observed, is busy pretending that nobody else exists. Here, most people seem to have no awareness that they might be watched. The number of funny grimaces, ticks, and odd gaping looks is amazing. Everyone is a Mr.Bean.
I have to tell you all about staying up all night on Thursday after the last final, and getting soaked in Paris and dirty dancing at Doobie's and having my top fall apart and saying a very, very sad farewell to those going to Singapore for P3, and taking the Eurostar and the lovely heated towel rack at my hotel . . . but who knows when credit on this machine runs out, so for now, I'm off . . . cheerio!
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Ah, study season. Sleepy from not getting home until 2:30 last night from a friend's house, where we BS'd about having, not having, the existence of God, and of course, fashion trends. On the side, we also ate McDonald's and did review problems for POM (Process and Operations Management). Felt strange to walk into a French McDonald's. Could have something to do with the fact that while everyone else was French and wearing dark colors- jeans and hoodies- I came in on turquoise blue kitten heels with shiny blue pebbles across the toes and a bright white and multicolor-flowered sundress with spaghetti straps and a pouffy full skirt. Eh, at least I didn't look typically Asian, right? The little girl in front of me pointed out my shoes to her maman and told me my shoes were "tres jolie."
Things have been relatively quiet here for the past few days - every night the cubicles are crowded with groups shedding papers and pizza boxes. It's actually a rather energizing time to be at school, if you're masochistic like me and enjoy socializing in the midst of studying. Tonight is club night at - don't ask- bizon again. The difference is that all of INSEAD's scheduled to be there since the Septembers have just reached their end of term, so this should be interesting. Attire is over-the-top cheesy clubgear. It'll be one of the last times I get to party with the Januaries who are going to Singapore for P3, since I'll be going in P4 and P5, and we'll completely miss each other in the process, except possibly for graduation ceremony. A few of my favorite people are leaving already, so strange, that. Oh well, it's my belief that if you like somebody enough to keep in touch, you will. If you don't, then you didn't deserve to anyway.
Tummy's starting to growl. Can't handle any more problems about the logistics of queueing, particularly since my mind keeps drifting off and dreaming about vacation in London. Must go in search of food before meeting group for practice OB exam-- oof, what a mess that'll be!
Things have been relatively quiet here for the past few days - every night the cubicles are crowded with groups shedding papers and pizza boxes. It's actually a rather energizing time to be at school, if you're masochistic like me and enjoy socializing in the midst of studying. Tonight is club night at - don't ask- bizon again. The difference is that all of INSEAD's scheduled to be there since the Septembers have just reached their end of term, so this should be interesting. Attire is over-the-top cheesy clubgear. It'll be one of the last times I get to party with the Januaries who are going to Singapore for P3, since I'll be going in P4 and P5, and we'll completely miss each other in the process, except possibly for graduation ceremony. A few of my favorite people are leaving already, so strange, that. Oh well, it's my belief that if you like somebody enough to keep in touch, you will. If you don't, then you didn't deserve to anyway.
Tummy's starting to growl. Can't handle any more problems about the logistics of queueing, particularly since my mind keeps drifting off and dreaming about vacation in London. Must go in search of food before meeting group for practice OB exam-- oof, what a mess that'll be!
Saturday, April 17, 2004
Toxic
Oy vey, it's been awhile, eh? What a week! Seems like forever since last weekend, which, although the weather was frigid and the fuel gave out, was as idyllic I'd hoped-- not hard given the company ;) Hosted a little board-game brunch for some Januaries-- nothing like Cranium to bring out the competitive streak in a bunch of international MBAs-- at one point, an all-play round, I found myself unable to communicate "missionary" through charades of a religious worker, so opted to act out the adjective form instead. A distinctly amusing INSEAD twist on the game-- we had the game cards read in various accents available around the table, which consisted of Bombay, American, French, Aussie, Egyptian, Hong Kong, and Thai.
Then, short visit from beau over, I went back to the weekly grind. Can't believe that finals are just a week away-- P2 is definitely more relaxed than P1. Could have a lot to do with the weather, which is off and on misty or nice, smelling of April. Also most people realize that they're not going to flunk out and are comfortable with where they stand. It was a brutal week, and went from great to worse to the low point of INSEAD so far. In order- Monday dinner typical, Tuesday dancing small attendance, Wednesday dinner boring, Thursday dinner shockingly drunk, Friday dinner intellectual debates while in detox.
Monday night heralded a week of deadlines pushed out of mind by peer pressure to socialize. Housemates playing guitar and singing until the wee hours as usual, but them without the case and paper I had due the next day. Sigh, what's a girl to do? She can't let her housemates call her a nerd, can she? So she stays up until the last guest leaves, and then she acquiesces to learning an Argentinian four step dance, and then she falls asleep on the couch and drags herself up four hours later to groggily BS about activity based costing.
Tuesday's dance class was sparsely attended, and I discovered that hustle doesn't mean the same thing in Europe as it does in the States. My goodness- instead of one-two-three-and, they dance and-one-two-three! Totally different, shockingly difficult to compromise. Had chinese takeout in a cubicle with a couple of other study-geeks. They forgot the rice, so it was a tasty but exceedingly salty dinner.
Wednesday's dinner was at a very traditional INSEAD demesne, which they call a chateau but doesn't look like one to me-- beautiful rooms, though (private hot tub! How's that for a come-on line?). The food was good, but dinner conversation was somehow . . . lacking. I don't know why. Too big a room? Too long a table? Too many existing continuous hangovers? It seemed like conversation for the sake of conversation, not any real involved discussion with friendship-building potential. At any rate, I left early, at 1:00am, and had a much better time chatting on the phone instead.
Thursday working intensely at school on a group paper due the next day. Ai, it's difficult to get along with the same group in this environment for so long. Although I still have enormous respect for some of my group members, I am very, very much looking forward to not having to deal with all of them after P2. It's a bit polarizing-- The ones I immediately took to are not the ones who now hold my abiding respect. In general, I feel no more awe at anyone’s abilities, but plenty more exasperation with certain parties’ distinct lack thereof. Anywho, left school at 9:45 to come late to a dinner party, and what a dinner party it was! Something about the right mix of people remaining at a certain point, I guess. Four boys, three girls, and drinking games. Ech . . . all I can say is, whatever it was they kept in bottles labled “jus de pamplemousse” was no grapefruit juice! We drank steadily, heavily, and raucously in shot after shot until all my senses blurred and I couldn’t even sit up straight. Cocktail, wine, vodka, whisky, absinthe, you name it. I think at 5:00 in the morning, we all reached some sort of unspoken agreement, and spontaneously ambled drunkenly toward the door. I slept over at E’s, since her house was near school and empty.
Friday, woke up at 9:00 still completely plastered, and walked the block to school feeling dizzy and disoriented by the sunlight. Drank coffee, ate a croissant, printed out group paper and attempted to read it, but the damn thing kept shifting and forcing me to see double. Felt alcohol still oozing out of every pore in my body, but nobody else seemed to notice (in fact, I guess I look better than usual when completely hung over and feeling like shit, because I got quite a lot of compliments that day). Sat through a marketing class with a guest lecturer from P&G Europe. At a certain point, the discussion about their new product launch of a super-upscale men’s cologne faded into the background, and a looming sense of urgency to go somewhere safe took over me. It’s that rare moment when you realize that you will imminently realize that you will imminently vomit. You’re not sure why at all, but something about the idea of a private bathroom stall sounds like the best place in the world. By the time I had bobbled half my unsteady way to the bathroom, I’d come to the second realization, and just hoped to God that I could make it down the stairs in time not to lose it in public. Thankfully for all involved, I did, only just. I believe I’ll never drink coffee again, it tastes so absolutely foul coming back up. It took me awhile to collect myself enough to stand up again—about half an hour, in fact. Unfortunately, it was a very bad idea, and I ended up right back on the floor, curled up in fetal position atop my coat, cheek pressing against one of the buttons and the white curve of the toilet’s underbelly gleaming at me beyond my knees. Foul, absolutely foul. I lay there semi-sleeping, hearing sounds of people coming in and out of the other stall while I shivered, sweated and and cursed, almost crying with total ignominy of it all. The lowest point of INSEAD? By miles. Eventually, I received a call for lunch, and cleaned myself up enough to wobble out. Again, compliments on the hair, the outfit. Either I’m insane or nobody here has a clue of how to tell when somebody’s near to death. Spent lunch with my cheek on the table (some people actually came over to inquire, assuming I was just tired) and half-participating in the conversation, half having wild daydreams of ripping out my liver to put myself out of my misery. Attended Finance, and the best thing I can say about it was that I didn’t puke on the teacher. Spent the rest of Friday afternoon sleeping on the lawn, then finally caught a ride to get my car and drove home. Collapsed into the shower for a blissful hour, looked longingly at my sheets, and then, fingers still slightly shaking, drove out to a house dinner with my groupmates. Drank water and ate sparingly, but got drawn into a surprisingly satisfying conversation that spanned history, politics and sociology. Made it home by 2:00, and fell into a shallow sleep full lurid dreams of toxic monsters.
Ah, but feeling much better now, thank you very much. Have decided to abstain from alcohol for the next two weeks, at least until the end of finals on April 29. Detox is as good for the soul as for the body, and I think both of mine need a hiatus. Today’s plan is to sit here and laze with the cats, listening to cheesy country music while I start some Finance and Operations review. There’s a dinner tonight and a barbeque tomorrow, but I’ll only stay if they’re low-key. Read- no more debauchery for my poor tentative liver!
Oy vey, it's been awhile, eh? What a week! Seems like forever since last weekend, which, although the weather was frigid and the fuel gave out, was as idyllic I'd hoped-- not hard given the company ;) Hosted a little board-game brunch for some Januaries-- nothing like Cranium to bring out the competitive streak in a bunch of international MBAs-- at one point, an all-play round, I found myself unable to communicate "missionary" through charades of a religious worker, so opted to act out the adjective form instead. A distinctly amusing INSEAD twist on the game-- we had the game cards read in various accents available around the table, which consisted of Bombay, American, French, Aussie, Egyptian, Hong Kong, and Thai.
Then, short visit from beau over, I went back to the weekly grind. Can't believe that finals are just a week away-- P2 is definitely more relaxed than P1. Could have a lot to do with the weather, which is off and on misty or nice, smelling of April. Also most people realize that they're not going to flunk out and are comfortable with where they stand. It was a brutal week, and went from great to worse to the low point of INSEAD so far. In order- Monday dinner typical, Tuesday dancing small attendance, Wednesday dinner boring, Thursday dinner shockingly drunk, Friday dinner intellectual debates while in detox.
Monday night heralded a week of deadlines pushed out of mind by peer pressure to socialize. Housemates playing guitar and singing until the wee hours as usual, but them without the case and paper I had due the next day. Sigh, what's a girl to do? She can't let her housemates call her a nerd, can she? So she stays up until the last guest leaves, and then she acquiesces to learning an Argentinian four step dance, and then she falls asleep on the couch and drags herself up four hours later to groggily BS about activity based costing.
Tuesday's dance class was sparsely attended, and I discovered that hustle doesn't mean the same thing in Europe as it does in the States. My goodness- instead of one-two-three-and, they dance and-one-two-three! Totally different, shockingly difficult to compromise. Had chinese takeout in a cubicle with a couple of other study-geeks. They forgot the rice, so it was a tasty but exceedingly salty dinner.
Wednesday's dinner was at a very traditional INSEAD demesne, which they call a chateau but doesn't look like one to me-- beautiful rooms, though (private hot tub! How's that for a come-on line?). The food was good, but dinner conversation was somehow . . . lacking. I don't know why. Too big a room? Too long a table? Too many existing continuous hangovers? It seemed like conversation for the sake of conversation, not any real involved discussion with friendship-building potential. At any rate, I left early, at 1:00am, and had a much better time chatting on the phone instead.
Thursday working intensely at school on a group paper due the next day. Ai, it's difficult to get along with the same group in this environment for so long. Although I still have enormous respect for some of my group members, I am very, very much looking forward to not having to deal with all of them after P2. It's a bit polarizing-- The ones I immediately took to are not the ones who now hold my abiding respect. In general, I feel no more awe at anyone’s abilities, but plenty more exasperation with certain parties’ distinct lack thereof. Anywho, left school at 9:45 to come late to a dinner party, and what a dinner party it was! Something about the right mix of people remaining at a certain point, I guess. Four boys, three girls, and drinking games. Ech . . . all I can say is, whatever it was they kept in bottles labled “jus de pamplemousse” was no grapefruit juice! We drank steadily, heavily, and raucously in shot after shot until all my senses blurred and I couldn’t even sit up straight. Cocktail, wine, vodka, whisky, absinthe, you name it. I think at 5:00 in the morning, we all reached some sort of unspoken agreement, and spontaneously ambled drunkenly toward the door. I slept over at E’s, since her house was near school and empty.
Friday, woke up at 9:00 still completely plastered, and walked the block to school feeling dizzy and disoriented by the sunlight. Drank coffee, ate a croissant, printed out group paper and attempted to read it, but the damn thing kept shifting and forcing me to see double. Felt alcohol still oozing out of every pore in my body, but nobody else seemed to notice (in fact, I guess I look better than usual when completely hung over and feeling like shit, because I got quite a lot of compliments that day). Sat through a marketing class with a guest lecturer from P&G Europe. At a certain point, the discussion about their new product launch of a super-upscale men’s cologne faded into the background, and a looming sense of urgency to go somewhere safe took over me. It’s that rare moment when you realize that you will imminently realize that you will imminently vomit. You’re not sure why at all, but something about the idea of a private bathroom stall sounds like the best place in the world. By the time I had bobbled half my unsteady way to the bathroom, I’d come to the second realization, and just hoped to God that I could make it down the stairs in time not to lose it in public. Thankfully for all involved, I did, only just. I believe I’ll never drink coffee again, it tastes so absolutely foul coming back up. It took me awhile to collect myself enough to stand up again—about half an hour, in fact. Unfortunately, it was a very bad idea, and I ended up right back on the floor, curled up in fetal position atop my coat, cheek pressing against one of the buttons and the white curve of the toilet’s underbelly gleaming at me beyond my knees. Foul, absolutely foul. I lay there semi-sleeping, hearing sounds of people coming in and out of the other stall while I shivered, sweated and and cursed, almost crying with total ignominy of it all. The lowest point of INSEAD? By miles. Eventually, I received a call for lunch, and cleaned myself up enough to wobble out. Again, compliments on the hair, the outfit. Either I’m insane or nobody here has a clue of how to tell when somebody’s near to death. Spent lunch with my cheek on the table (some people actually came over to inquire, assuming I was just tired) and half-participating in the conversation, half having wild daydreams of ripping out my liver to put myself out of my misery. Attended Finance, and the best thing I can say about it was that I didn’t puke on the teacher. Spent the rest of Friday afternoon sleeping on the lawn, then finally caught a ride to get my car and drove home. Collapsed into the shower for a blissful hour, looked longingly at my sheets, and then, fingers still slightly shaking, drove out to a house dinner with my groupmates. Drank water and ate sparingly, but got drawn into a surprisingly satisfying conversation that spanned history, politics and sociology. Made it home by 2:00, and fell into a shallow sleep full lurid dreams of toxic monsters.
Ah, but feeling much better now, thank you very much. Have decided to abstain from alcohol for the next two weeks, at least until the end of finals on April 29. Detox is as good for the soul as for the body, and I think both of mine need a hiatus. Today’s plan is to sit here and laze with the cats, listening to cheesy country music while I start some Finance and Operations review. There’s a dinner tonight and a barbeque tomorrow, but I’ll only stay if they’re low-key. Read- no more debauchery for my poor tentative liver!
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Golden apples by the roadside
Only two more days until the boyfriend comes to visit! Have been smiling to myself while getting ready for bed for days now, just giddy with anticipation—how girly is that? Not exactly the picture of a strong independent woman getting her MBA, is it? Ah, whatever, to thine own self be true, right? And it appears that mine own self is just a saccharine infatuated cheeseball.
But on notes of more interest to normal people: Spent Saturday night watching a verifiably awful Indian Bollywood production with some Indian friends and a few other Bollywood neophytes. The plot went something like this—she loves him for bringing love back into her dysfunctional family life, and he loves her, but he’s dying of a heart disease that she doesn’t know about, so he pretends to not love her, and instead tries to set her up with her best friend, who ends up also falling in love with her, but then they all find out about the heart disease and his imminent death, and so of course dramatic music swells, and all characters spontaneously break out in Indian song and dance. I had to literally hide my head sometimes because I couldn’t handle the cheesiness of it all. A novel experience, except that it lasted three hours—oof!
Sunday was absolutely lovely—went in the morning to a friend’s house for French brunch, and stuffed myself silly on the best bread in Paris (he’s a bread expert) and confiture des figues and potato pancake and honey and tea. We stood in the sunshine and observed the red and black beetles running around like mad, in pairs with their backsides connected, one running forward while the other was forced to run backward—Spring, what else can cause this madness?
In the afternoon I took the train into Paris by myself to the Louvre, which is free on the first Sunday of each month. I wandered, notebook in hand, to the classical French sculpture garden, sat myself before La Toilette d’Atalanta by James Pradier, and got to know my compressed charcoal set. Had a wonderful 1.5 hours studying light and shadow—what I wouldn’t give to be able to carve marble! At some point a girl asked me if she could take my picture—probably thought I was some sort of French art student. Was tapped on the shoulder by a curator 15 minutes before closing, so drizzled down a few highlights with the white chalk, closed my notebook, and off I went.
The weather was blustery but fine, so I walked the streets from the 1st to the 9th arrondissement, hands in pockets, sneakers springy against the pavement. Reminded me of New York, the packed avenues next to the neat little alleys, and the ubiquitous construction. Was struck by a sudden but intense craving, so popped into a brasserie after awhile and ordered une demi-douzaine des huitres speciales . . . my favorite oysters in the world. I wonder what “speciales” translates to? I’ve read a little bit on oysters, and I’ve never heard of a “special” oyster. Will have to do more research. After that, wandered around a bit more, then took an evening train back home.
On the train, while touching up my drawing of Atalanta, was once again requested for a photo (this time of just the picture) by a nice fellow sitting nearby. Said he’d love to use it (I assume for a website or something, couldn’t understand his very fast French that well), and I said no problem. Came home to a warm kitchen and spicy Indian dinner on the stove—it’s so wonderful to have roommates finally! Ended an idyllic day with an idyllic evening chatting for hours at the kitchen table over a bottle of wine. Called a friend to wish her happy birthday, and fell asleep smiling.
My INSEAD week so far, though, has been far from relaxed. Allergies are really catching up with me, and I spend much of my day blowing my nose. A slew of 8:30 class starts have been absolutely murderous—I feel so useless, like a stone dipped in thick egg batter. Monday dinner went far too late (as usual), dragging out over intense trance music, limoncello shots and wild discussions of business plans. Yesterday spent 3 hours writing a cover letter for a very cool-sounding summer internship for which I’m not really qualified (my first job application at INSEAD!), after which I ran to Salsa lessons. Taught some basics and connection techniques, then got in there a nice cha-cha at the end, just for fun—new partner, amazing guy, far better dancer than I am. At night was supposed to go to a house party with a Beach theme, and even had my bikini at the ready, but was just so exhausted, sniffly and sick after an unexpectedly long dinner (French service, you know how it goes) that I called it an evening, leaving school by 1:00am.
Woke up this morning at 7:15 feeling absolutely awful, and decided it was time for a mini-vacation. Turned off alarm, went back to bed, and blissfully fell back into my pillow until the start of my second class. Spent second class in a leisurely shower, then cooking myself a little Chinese rice porridge with the fixin’s. Went to Finance finally at noon feeling, if not refreshed, at least not quite as fatigued. Ah, and that brings me to now, trying to avoid the writing of my OB essay about the importance of shareholder value as a decision driver for the modern corporation, blah blah blah, until dinner time. Ai yai, back to the grind.
Only two more days until the boyfriend comes to visit! Have been smiling to myself while getting ready for bed for days now, just giddy with anticipation—how girly is that? Not exactly the picture of a strong independent woman getting her MBA, is it? Ah, whatever, to thine own self be true, right? And it appears that mine own self is just a saccharine infatuated cheeseball.
But on notes of more interest to normal people: Spent Saturday night watching a verifiably awful Indian Bollywood production with some Indian friends and a few other Bollywood neophytes. The plot went something like this—she loves him for bringing love back into her dysfunctional family life, and he loves her, but he’s dying of a heart disease that she doesn’t know about, so he pretends to not love her, and instead tries to set her up with her best friend, who ends up also falling in love with her, but then they all find out about the heart disease and his imminent death, and so of course dramatic music swells, and all characters spontaneously break out in Indian song and dance. I had to literally hide my head sometimes because I couldn’t handle the cheesiness of it all. A novel experience, except that it lasted three hours—oof!
Sunday was absolutely lovely—went in the morning to a friend’s house for French brunch, and stuffed myself silly on the best bread in Paris (he’s a bread expert) and confiture des figues and potato pancake and honey and tea. We stood in the sunshine and observed the red and black beetles running around like mad, in pairs with their backsides connected, one running forward while the other was forced to run backward—Spring, what else can cause this madness?
In the afternoon I took the train into Paris by myself to the Louvre, which is free on the first Sunday of each month. I wandered, notebook in hand, to the classical French sculpture garden, sat myself before La Toilette d’Atalanta by James Pradier, and got to know my compressed charcoal set. Had a wonderful 1.5 hours studying light and shadow—what I wouldn’t give to be able to carve marble! At some point a girl asked me if she could take my picture—probably thought I was some sort of French art student. Was tapped on the shoulder by a curator 15 minutes before closing, so drizzled down a few highlights with the white chalk, closed my notebook, and off I went.
The weather was blustery but fine, so I walked the streets from the 1st to the 9th arrondissement, hands in pockets, sneakers springy against the pavement. Reminded me of New York, the packed avenues next to the neat little alleys, and the ubiquitous construction. Was struck by a sudden but intense craving, so popped into a brasserie after awhile and ordered une demi-douzaine des huitres speciales . . . my favorite oysters in the world. I wonder what “speciales” translates to? I’ve read a little bit on oysters, and I’ve never heard of a “special” oyster. Will have to do more research. After that, wandered around a bit more, then took an evening train back home.
On the train, while touching up my drawing of Atalanta, was once again requested for a photo (this time of just the picture) by a nice fellow sitting nearby. Said he’d love to use it (I assume for a website or something, couldn’t understand his very fast French that well), and I said no problem. Came home to a warm kitchen and spicy Indian dinner on the stove—it’s so wonderful to have roommates finally! Ended an idyllic day with an idyllic evening chatting for hours at the kitchen table over a bottle of wine. Called a friend to wish her happy birthday, and fell asleep smiling.
My INSEAD week so far, though, has been far from relaxed. Allergies are really catching up with me, and I spend much of my day blowing my nose. A slew of 8:30 class starts have been absolutely murderous—I feel so useless, like a stone dipped in thick egg batter. Monday dinner went far too late (as usual), dragging out over intense trance music, limoncello shots and wild discussions of business plans. Yesterday spent 3 hours writing a cover letter for a very cool-sounding summer internship for which I’m not really qualified (my first job application at INSEAD!), after which I ran to Salsa lessons. Taught some basics and connection techniques, then got in there a nice cha-cha at the end, just for fun—new partner, amazing guy, far better dancer than I am. At night was supposed to go to a house party with a Beach theme, and even had my bikini at the ready, but was just so exhausted, sniffly and sick after an unexpectedly long dinner (French service, you know how it goes) that I called it an evening, leaving school by 1:00am.
Woke up this morning at 7:15 feeling absolutely awful, and decided it was time for a mini-vacation. Turned off alarm, went back to bed, and blissfully fell back into my pillow until the start of my second class. Spent second class in a leisurely shower, then cooking myself a little Chinese rice porridge with the fixin’s. Went to Finance finally at noon feeling, if not refreshed, at least not quite as fatigued. Ah, and that brings me to now, trying to avoid the writing of my OB essay about the importance of shareholder value as a decision driver for the modern corporation, blah blah blah, until dinner time. Ai yai, back to the grind.
Sunday, April 04, 2004
No, where are you really from?
Ah, a Saturday off. Last night was the Africa party, held at a club in Fontainebleau. House was packed, and drums reverberrating all evening. I was so exhausted from my week that I once again slept through dinner (a friend who was also witness to last week's tardiness joked that he hoped never to go on a date with me, because it would just be asking to be stood up). Am starting to feel more and more at home with the group of people I know here. Witness-- at some point in the evening, an extremely drunk guy from the Exec Ed program grabbed me by the middle and started pushing his hips toward mine. Seeing the look of aghast discomfort on my face, two (larger) guy friends immediately came to the rescue, maneuvering me into a safer circle and sending glowering looks at the trespasser. Ah, but it's good to have friends.
Which brings me to the topic of come-on dynamics here. I feel that in the States, men will often come up with the line, "hey, where are you from?" My immediate response is generally (irrelevant of the ethnicity of the person querying) an immediate freezing of the neck, and an icy cold, conversation stopping, "California." Most boys who (very mistakenly) think they are being cute continue pushing, with "no, where are you from originally?" Yes, it's true, I look Chinese, I have black hair and slanted eyes, and maybe I was even born in Shanghai, but if I tell you I'm from California and I speak accentless English, why don't you believe me? That's the hackles-raised, hostile response I usually give in the States. Here at INSEAD, it's a completely different story. People are from all corners of the globe. You have ethnic everythings from everywhere, and it's impossible to tell from look or accent alone. There are people with Chinese faces and British accents who hold Spanish passports. I have no problem with being asked my background, and never find it difficult to delve into the complexities, and am never disbelieved when I say, "I'm American."
I thought this was just because I wasn't in the States anymore, but after last night, I've decided that the reason I've always reacted so negatively in the past must have been due to the unconscious "creep" cues received from the queries. Last night, not one, but two men I'd never met used the line on me, and pushed me for my "ancestry," as if that mattered at all, or was an interesting point of conversation. The fact that I could see them resorting to this line of questioning as some sort of way of flirting with me was just purely unpalatable. There was no innocent curiosity at all, and all I could feel was the calculations going on behind their eyes--"can I get this girl to flirt back by pretending to be interested in her culture?" "she's Chinese, is she docile in bed?"
Ugh. My advice to men-- save it. If you're honestly fascinated by the culture, go study the culture. If you're just fascinated by the women, buy yourself a porn subscription and don't bother with the bar scene until you can grow up a little. Women are not stupid, and they can tell a stupid anonymous come-on line from real curiosity. Speaking for myself, I consider myself an individual, and prefer to be treated as such. I have no desire to be sized up based on my ethnicity alone. We've been doing all sorts of cultural awareness exercises in our classes, and it's been great. What's wonderful about INSEAD people, I think, is that they realize the importance of culture as a background for understanding, but just as importantly they realize the importance of the unique individual when it comes to really doing business.
Ah, a Saturday off. Last night was the Africa party, held at a club in Fontainebleau. House was packed, and drums reverberrating all evening. I was so exhausted from my week that I once again slept through dinner (a friend who was also witness to last week's tardiness joked that he hoped never to go on a date with me, because it would just be asking to be stood up). Am starting to feel more and more at home with the group of people I know here. Witness-- at some point in the evening, an extremely drunk guy from the Exec Ed program grabbed me by the middle and started pushing his hips toward mine. Seeing the look of aghast discomfort on my face, two (larger) guy friends immediately came to the rescue, maneuvering me into a safer circle and sending glowering looks at the trespasser. Ah, but it's good to have friends.
Which brings me to the topic of come-on dynamics here. I feel that in the States, men will often come up with the line, "hey, where are you from?" My immediate response is generally (irrelevant of the ethnicity of the person querying) an immediate freezing of the neck, and an icy cold, conversation stopping, "California." Most boys who (very mistakenly) think they are being cute continue pushing, with "no, where are you from originally?" Yes, it's true, I look Chinese, I have black hair and slanted eyes, and maybe I was even born in Shanghai, but if I tell you I'm from California and I speak accentless English, why don't you believe me? That's the hackles-raised, hostile response I usually give in the States. Here at INSEAD, it's a completely different story. People are from all corners of the globe. You have ethnic everythings from everywhere, and it's impossible to tell from look or accent alone. There are people with Chinese faces and British accents who hold Spanish passports. I have no problem with being asked my background, and never find it difficult to delve into the complexities, and am never disbelieved when I say, "I'm American."
I thought this was just because I wasn't in the States anymore, but after last night, I've decided that the reason I've always reacted so negatively in the past must have been due to the unconscious "creep" cues received from the queries. Last night, not one, but two men I'd never met used the line on me, and pushed me for my "ancestry," as if that mattered at all, or was an interesting point of conversation. The fact that I could see them resorting to this line of questioning as some sort of way of flirting with me was just purely unpalatable. There was no innocent curiosity at all, and all I could feel was the calculations going on behind their eyes--"can I get this girl to flirt back by pretending to be interested in her culture?" "she's Chinese, is she docile in bed?"
Ugh. My advice to men-- save it. If you're honestly fascinated by the culture, go study the culture. If you're just fascinated by the women, buy yourself a porn subscription and don't bother with the bar scene until you can grow up a little. Women are not stupid, and they can tell a stupid anonymous come-on line from real curiosity. Speaking for myself, I consider myself an individual, and prefer to be treated as such. I have no desire to be sized up based on my ethnicity alone. We've been doing all sorts of cultural awareness exercises in our classes, and it's been great. What's wonderful about INSEAD people, I think, is that they realize the importance of culture as a background for understanding, but just as importantly they realize the importance of the unique individual when it comes to really doing business.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Craving Oysters
Eh, in kind of a dour mood, for some reason. Perhaps because I’ve been doing too much finance? Perhaps because the alcohol from last night is getting to me? Perhaps because I’m just feeling kind of antisocial, like there are lots of people here that I know by face, that I know well enough to stop and talk to, but still few that I can just plop down next to and never feel like I’m overstaying my welcome. Am not not NOT a politician, never will learn to be satisfied by casual encounters and knowing lots of names (on top of which, I have a poor head for names).
Anywho, this weekend was actually rather nice. Went out and had a wonderful evening Thursday with just a couple of friends. Nearly fell out my window after coming home because I oh-so-impetuously decided to try and crane my neck out and stargaze. Only the safety bar kept me from hurtling out onto the courtyard and squashing the sleeping chickens. Was once again totally exhausted on Friday, and slept right through dinner, but drove out again to meet a bunch of friends for an evening at Bezon. Ugh, the joys of provincial clubbing. Strange, seedy place that only becomes palatable in a group of 8 or more.
Saturday was beautiful and light, so I took the train into Paris with my drawing pencils in tow. Didn’t get much of a chance to use them, though, because I met up with a friend who wanted nothing of my nerdy ways. Instead spent the afternoon traipsing about upscale shops and trying on French lingerie (a combination of “market research” for an idea of his and personal intrigue, of course). Had a dinner of oysters in some fancy brasserie . . . . ummm. I think if I had to eat just one food for the rest of my life, it would be oysters. I’m salivating just thinking about them.
Sunday was, of course, the slumber party. Thirteen girls clustered on the floor in my living room, flipping through magazines and discussing dresses, jewelry, and boys. You know, the important things. Contrary to popular belief, we did not then strip down to our underwear and start a pillowfight. I will say, though, that there was quite a bit of giggling once a rousing game of “I never” got started. At some point we all realized that “we’re not in college anymore, honey.” Beyond that, my lips are sealed.
What with the time change in Europe, though, 8:30 classes on Monday were brutal. I was so tired I think I actually hurt my arm while in the process of catching myself falling out of my chair. Went home groggy, and slept until 6:30, when I had to get up and start prepping for the dinner party. Ah, to wake up freshfaced and alert, only to drown it immediately in endless glasses of punch!
Honestly, it’s unbelievable how strange this kind of lifestyle is. The ups of intense drunken socializing and downs of deeply quiet country living really wreck any sense of stability that you have, and in between I often find myself yearning for the simplicity of just sitting in my own little apartment in Chelsea with my cat cuddled on my stomach and a boyfriend I can see whenever I want. I know I’m being a spoiled little brat. Nyeh nyeh. But loneliness creeps its cold little head often, and I think I’m feeling it now. Tonight would be a good night for some chicken soup, maybe. Ugh, you ever want to just slap yourself for being so damned needy and pathetic? Am going to go and watch the drum circle (it’s Africa week) to shake myself out of this.
Eh, in kind of a dour mood, for some reason. Perhaps because I’ve been doing too much finance? Perhaps because the alcohol from last night is getting to me? Perhaps because I’m just feeling kind of antisocial, like there are lots of people here that I know by face, that I know well enough to stop and talk to, but still few that I can just plop down next to and never feel like I’m overstaying my welcome. Am not not NOT a politician, never will learn to be satisfied by casual encounters and knowing lots of names (on top of which, I have a poor head for names).
Anywho, this weekend was actually rather nice. Went out and had a wonderful evening Thursday with just a couple of friends. Nearly fell out my window after coming home because I oh-so-impetuously decided to try and crane my neck out and stargaze. Only the safety bar kept me from hurtling out onto the courtyard and squashing the sleeping chickens. Was once again totally exhausted on Friday, and slept right through dinner, but drove out again to meet a bunch of friends for an evening at Bezon. Ugh, the joys of provincial clubbing. Strange, seedy place that only becomes palatable in a group of 8 or more.
Saturday was beautiful and light, so I took the train into Paris with my drawing pencils in tow. Didn’t get much of a chance to use them, though, because I met up with a friend who wanted nothing of my nerdy ways. Instead spent the afternoon traipsing about upscale shops and trying on French lingerie (a combination of “market research” for an idea of his and personal intrigue, of course). Had a dinner of oysters in some fancy brasserie . . . . ummm. I think if I had to eat just one food for the rest of my life, it would be oysters. I’m salivating just thinking about them.
Sunday was, of course, the slumber party. Thirteen girls clustered on the floor in my living room, flipping through magazines and discussing dresses, jewelry, and boys. You know, the important things. Contrary to popular belief, we did not then strip down to our underwear and start a pillowfight. I will say, though, that there was quite a bit of giggling once a rousing game of “I never” got started. At some point we all realized that “we’re not in college anymore, honey.” Beyond that, my lips are sealed.
What with the time change in Europe, though, 8:30 classes on Monday were brutal. I was so tired I think I actually hurt my arm while in the process of catching myself falling out of my chair. Went home groggy, and slept until 6:30, when I had to get up and start prepping for the dinner party. Ah, to wake up freshfaced and alert, only to drown it immediately in endless glasses of punch!
Honestly, it’s unbelievable how strange this kind of lifestyle is. The ups of intense drunken socializing and downs of deeply quiet country living really wreck any sense of stability that you have, and in between I often find myself yearning for the simplicity of just sitting in my own little apartment in Chelsea with my cat cuddled on my stomach and a boyfriend I can see whenever I want. I know I’m being a spoiled little brat. Nyeh nyeh. But loneliness creeps its cold little head often, and I think I’m feeling it now. Tonight would be a good night for some chicken soup, maybe. Ugh, you ever want to just slap yourself for being so damned needy and pathetic? Am going to go and watch the drum circle (it’s Africa week) to shake myself out of this.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Sleepy
Oy vey, so sleepy right now. Live too far away to want to zip home for a nap, so instead whittling away precious sleep time by hanging about at school, not getting any work done. Too many margaritas last night, too little water this morning. Class was slow torture. Had to get my picture taken for the CV book today—looked an absolute fright. Ech. This week is crawling by, tomorrow can’t come soon enough. Seems suddenly like we have three lectures a day, each more tedious than the next. Spring is flirting with us, playing peekaboo behind the rainclouds and the misty mornings. Don’t know if I can drag myself out for drinks tonight, but then again, staying at home in an empty house just leaves me depressed. Saturday may be just a quiet day, who knows? No plans in advance. Sunday, though, I’m excited. Am hosting a slumber party for all the girls in my section (16 girls, an unheard of phenomenon here at INSEAD). Potluck dinner, sleeping bags, girly gossip, Cosmo magazines, and of course, Sex & the City. No boys allowed. On another note, have decided to spend the P2-P3 break in London with the boyfriend, am very excited. As many boys as there are here, it’s just not the same when the boy is so far away. I feel sometimes like a person dying of thirst while surrounded by bottles of alcohol—you know that there are other options available, but you know also that really, only water will do. Eh, enough of this romanticizing. April will be here soon enough.
Oy vey, so sleepy right now. Live too far away to want to zip home for a nap, so instead whittling away precious sleep time by hanging about at school, not getting any work done. Too many margaritas last night, too little water this morning. Class was slow torture. Had to get my picture taken for the CV book today—looked an absolute fright. Ech. This week is crawling by, tomorrow can’t come soon enough. Seems suddenly like we have three lectures a day, each more tedious than the next. Spring is flirting with us, playing peekaboo behind the rainclouds and the misty mornings. Don’t know if I can drag myself out for drinks tonight, but then again, staying at home in an empty house just leaves me depressed. Saturday may be just a quiet day, who knows? No plans in advance. Sunday, though, I’m excited. Am hosting a slumber party for all the girls in my section (16 girls, an unheard of phenomenon here at INSEAD). Potluck dinner, sleeping bags, girly gossip, Cosmo magazines, and of course, Sex & the City. No boys allowed. On another note, have decided to spend the P2-P3 break in London with the boyfriend, am very excited. As many boys as there are here, it’s just not the same when the boy is so far away. I feel sometimes like a person dying of thirst while surrounded by bottles of alcohol—you know that there are other options available, but you know also that really, only water will do. Eh, enough of this romanticizing. April will be here soon enough.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Bruised and Battered
Oy vey, what a weekend. Ski trip at Val Thorance at a groupmate’s ski house. Image to me, crawling on hands and knees while dragging snow board by foot in front of queue of strangers after ignominiously falling off of T-pole lift. Now imagine this THREE times. I fell at least 100 times, even with the 2-hour private lesson. Can’t move right side of neck or wrists or shoulders, or arse for that matter. What do you think, is this California girl a cold-weather sport person? I would say an emphatic no, but it hurts to do anything emphatically today, so I’ll have to settle for a deadpan one.
Anywho, received my grades for P1 this morning—grade distribution was actually Friday night, but we had to take off for the slopes, so my group had to wait until this morning, with the exception of the cleverest one, who had her best friend pick up her grades and call her afterwards. Did fairly well, above average on most subjects, and won’t have to study like mad this term. In comparison to college, although, in terms of personal standards, there's always that glimmer of ambition . . . I’d like to do a little better next time. Then again, there’s always the tradeoff of socializing and having fun and making friends . . . who am I kidding? I’m going to do what I do, never passing up any social invites, and the grades will be what they will be. Ech, time for class again. No time! And so many thoughts . . . must start keeping notebook. Who knows, if this whole successful businesswoman thing doesn’t work out, I may have to resort to seedy romance novels or cheesy greeting cards to support myself.
Oy vey, what a weekend. Ski trip at Val Thorance at a groupmate’s ski house. Image to me, crawling on hands and knees while dragging snow board by foot in front of queue of strangers after ignominiously falling off of T-pole lift. Now imagine this THREE times. I fell at least 100 times, even with the 2-hour private lesson. Can’t move right side of neck or wrists or shoulders, or arse for that matter. What do you think, is this California girl a cold-weather sport person? I would say an emphatic no, but it hurts to do anything emphatically today, so I’ll have to settle for a deadpan one.
Anywho, received my grades for P1 this morning—grade distribution was actually Friday night, but we had to take off for the slopes, so my group had to wait until this morning, with the exception of the cleverest one, who had her best friend pick up her grades and call her afterwards. Did fairly well, above average on most subjects, and won’t have to study like mad this term. In comparison to college, although, in terms of personal standards, there's always that glimmer of ambition . . . I’d like to do a little better next time. Then again, there’s always the tradeoff of socializing and having fun and making friends . . . who am I kidding? I’m going to do what I do, never passing up any social invites, and the grades will be what they will be. Ech, time for class again. No time! And so many thoughts . . . must start keeping notebook. Who knows, if this whole successful businesswoman thing doesn’t work out, I may have to resort to seedy romance novels or cheesy greeting cards to support myself.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
. . . in the air
There are these funny looking trees that line the road I drive along in the mornings next to the Seine. They look like nothing so much as stodgy straight flashlight shafts with large tufted red mohawks on top. This morning, as I gunned the accelerator with my open-toed platform sandals, I finally figured out what they were-- french cherry blossom trees! They look better in pink. What a difference a spring breeze will make.
Oh folks, it's spring, it's spring! I know that the rain will start again as soon as I blink, but today is the most gorgeous day, and I'm in a tank top and skirt, my legs swishing through the freshly warm air, almost tipsy on the greenness suddenly bursting all around. Last night's dinner party was prepared with doors open, aromas of roasting chicken wafting into the courtyard from all three houses (these little French ovens don't fit more than two chickens each). It was a far better attempt on my part than previous evenings, and amazingly enough all food was ready when the guests arrived! The dessert concoction worked out wonderfully, even though the top of the brownie burned and there was no recipe for the cream fruit mousse dish. We ate on time, and everyone seemed pleased.
This morning I drove to the post office in town and bumbled my way through the bureaucracy to pick up my packages, shipped from the US on New Year's Eve. My dresses! My sandals! My sketching supplies! My winter coat!-- oof. But better late than never, and in the case of the spring clothing, it's just in time. Today's one of those days where nothing at all can dampen my mood. The whole school has spilled out into the courtyard amphis onto the grass, soaking up their vitamin D and drinking up the skin-skimming sunlight. Time for class now. I think we'll have to do beers all around during the 15 minute break. It's just one of those days when you can't get over the unbelievable, irrepressible luck of being alive.
There are these funny looking trees that line the road I drive along in the mornings next to the Seine. They look like nothing so much as stodgy straight flashlight shafts with large tufted red mohawks on top. This morning, as I gunned the accelerator with my open-toed platform sandals, I finally figured out what they were-- french cherry blossom trees! They look better in pink. What a difference a spring breeze will make.
Oh folks, it's spring, it's spring! I know that the rain will start again as soon as I blink, but today is the most gorgeous day, and I'm in a tank top and skirt, my legs swishing through the freshly warm air, almost tipsy on the greenness suddenly bursting all around. Last night's dinner party was prepared with doors open, aromas of roasting chicken wafting into the courtyard from all three houses (these little French ovens don't fit more than two chickens each). It was a far better attempt on my part than previous evenings, and amazingly enough all food was ready when the guests arrived! The dessert concoction worked out wonderfully, even though the top of the brownie burned and there was no recipe for the cream fruit mousse dish. We ate on time, and everyone seemed pleased.
This morning I drove to the post office in town and bumbled my way through the bureaucracy to pick up my packages, shipped from the US on New Year's Eve. My dresses! My sandals! My sketching supplies! My winter coat!-- oof. But better late than never, and in the case of the spring clothing, it's just in time. Today's one of those days where nothing at all can dampen my mood. The whole school has spilled out into the courtyard amphis onto the grass, soaking up their vitamin D and drinking up the skin-skimming sunlight. Time for class now. I think we'll have to do beers all around during the 15 minute break. It's just one of those days when you can't get over the unbelievable, irrepressible luck of being alive.
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Hubris and Bruised Hips
What a whirlwind 24 hours. Am sitting here at school in the computer kiosk in a slinky black tank-top jumpsuit, smelling of fireplace smoke and tasting of champagne. Haven't made it home yet from last night's party, but thankfully have no trace of a hangover headache. My left hip hurts, and I have no doubt that when I peel off this jumpsuit, there will be an enormous purply-green bruise awaiting me-- oof, no tight jeans for awhile.
Anywho, to do it chronologically: Yesterday, was dead tired after a morning of classes (the last of which was managerial accounting, taught by an inneffectual and slightly officious woman who spastically speedwrote illegible formulas on the board without explaining any of the terms). Went to the computer and thought I should check out the NYTimes-- the problem with listening to the French news radio is that I really have no idea what's going on-- only the nouns and numbers jump out at me, but none of the verbs. Was greeted by gruesome pictures of subway cars with their guts twisted apart and randomly strewn about like a Dali painting gone wrong. Reading through the articles with a cold stomach, I was struck by a quote from one of the victims-- "what kind of human being could do this?" What kind indeed. What mother's son or daughter, what dreamer of dreams gone wrong? Hubris is a concept of outrageous arrogance, the kind that will lead you to deny the gods and result in wanton violence and self destruction. I can understand anger, and I can understand rebellion, but I can't understand hubris. What kind of rationalization could convince a person that they have the right to the lives of strangers? There's something missing here that I can't grasp. I couldn't grasp it in the aftermath of September 11th, 2001, and I can't grasp it now.
So, after the unsettling experience starting to cry while sitting next to strangers in a public place, I booked it home, the cold splatters of rain on my car hood echoing the vise around my throat and the angry tears behind my eyes. I sent my condolences to a friend from Madrid, but what do you say? "I'm sorry, this world can be a shitty place," is so pitifully inadequate.
Nothing like physical exhaustion and emotional disillusionment to make you want to crawl into a warm bath, so that's what I did, for two hours. By the time I got out, the water was cold and all my digits pruny with moisture. Slid into bed, and as soon as I closed my eyes I was in free fall, a thick white silent sleep that lasted exactly 4 hours. Woke up, made myself some rice porridge, and with a little help from my new roommate, chose an outfit for the evening (the red dress was deemed "too ballroom").
Went to the party feeling a tad subdued under the circumstances, but it's amazing what bubbly can do for my mood and inhibitions. It's never failed me before-- I can be dead tired or screamingly angry or suicidally depressed, but get me drunk and I'll dance until I fall over. Amazingly enough, pictures are already up on INSEAD's shared drives, and oof, there I am on top of the table as usual, the exhibitionist in the alcohol. Will never learn. It was a capital party, even when I walked into the kitchen at midnight to get more strawberry shortcake (heaven when eaten with fingers and combined with French champagne), and whoosh! suddenly found myself completely horizontal, lying on my side and looking at a sea of men's shoes. Ten hands helped up up and dusted me off, murmurs of "are you okay?" and "it's so slippery in here." Thank goodness for the sheen of devil-may-care that comes with inebriation, otherwise I and my bruised pride (not to mention hip) might have jumped out the window to melt in a puddle of mortification. Yes, me the salsa teacher, the smooth dancer, wiping out ignominiously on a slick of frosting. At least there are no pictures of that.
At some point I left with a group of people and found myself in a gorgeous country manor with the biggest fireplace yet, and we gathered around with yet more champagne and me with my blanket and them with their joints and shared sleepy debates of our favorite books, from The Places You'll Go by Seuss to The Plague by Camus. Your typical post-party chill out semi-intellectual pretension sharing exercise, I suppose-- now have a must-read list for when I learn Italian. It was relaxed and softly enjoyable, but I fell asleep before I could share in the collective macaroni and cheese with ketchup craving that struck at 5:30 in the morning.
What a whirlwind 24 hours. Am sitting here at school in the computer kiosk in a slinky black tank-top jumpsuit, smelling of fireplace smoke and tasting of champagne. Haven't made it home yet from last night's party, but thankfully have no trace of a hangover headache. My left hip hurts, and I have no doubt that when I peel off this jumpsuit, there will be an enormous purply-green bruise awaiting me-- oof, no tight jeans for awhile.
Anywho, to do it chronologically: Yesterday, was dead tired after a morning of classes (the last of which was managerial accounting, taught by an inneffectual and slightly officious woman who spastically speedwrote illegible formulas on the board without explaining any of the terms). Went to the computer and thought I should check out the NYTimes-- the problem with listening to the French news radio is that I really have no idea what's going on-- only the nouns and numbers jump out at me, but none of the verbs. Was greeted by gruesome pictures of subway cars with their guts twisted apart and randomly strewn about like a Dali painting gone wrong. Reading through the articles with a cold stomach, I was struck by a quote from one of the victims-- "what kind of human being could do this?" What kind indeed. What mother's son or daughter, what dreamer of dreams gone wrong? Hubris is a concept of outrageous arrogance, the kind that will lead you to deny the gods and result in wanton violence and self destruction. I can understand anger, and I can understand rebellion, but I can't understand hubris. What kind of rationalization could convince a person that they have the right to the lives of strangers? There's something missing here that I can't grasp. I couldn't grasp it in the aftermath of September 11th, 2001, and I can't grasp it now.
So, after the unsettling experience starting to cry while sitting next to strangers in a public place, I booked it home, the cold splatters of rain on my car hood echoing the vise around my throat and the angry tears behind my eyes. I sent my condolences to a friend from Madrid, but what do you say? "I'm sorry, this world can be a shitty place," is so pitifully inadequate.
Nothing like physical exhaustion and emotional disillusionment to make you want to crawl into a warm bath, so that's what I did, for two hours. By the time I got out, the water was cold and all my digits pruny with moisture. Slid into bed, and as soon as I closed my eyes I was in free fall, a thick white silent sleep that lasted exactly 4 hours. Woke up, made myself some rice porridge, and with a little help from my new roommate, chose an outfit for the evening (the red dress was deemed "too ballroom").
Went to the party feeling a tad subdued under the circumstances, but it's amazing what bubbly can do for my mood and inhibitions. It's never failed me before-- I can be dead tired or screamingly angry or suicidally depressed, but get me drunk and I'll dance until I fall over. Amazingly enough, pictures are already up on INSEAD's shared drives, and oof, there I am on top of the table as usual, the exhibitionist in the alcohol. Will never learn. It was a capital party, even when I walked into the kitchen at midnight to get more strawberry shortcake (heaven when eaten with fingers and combined with French champagne), and whoosh! suddenly found myself completely horizontal, lying on my side and looking at a sea of men's shoes. Ten hands helped up up and dusted me off, murmurs of "are you okay?" and "it's so slippery in here." Thank goodness for the sheen of devil-may-care that comes with inebriation, otherwise I and my bruised pride (not to mention hip) might have jumped out the window to melt in a puddle of mortification. Yes, me the salsa teacher, the smooth dancer, wiping out ignominiously on a slick of frosting. At least there are no pictures of that.
At some point I left with a group of people and found myself in a gorgeous country manor with the biggest fireplace yet, and we gathered around with yet more champagne and me with my blanket and them with their joints and shared sleepy debates of our favorite books, from The Places You'll Go by Seuss to The Plague by Camus. Your typical post-party chill out semi-intellectual pretension sharing exercise, I suppose-- now have a must-read list for when I learn Italian. It was relaxed and softly enjoyable, but I fell asleep before I could share in the collective macaroni and cheese with ketchup craving that struck at 5:30 in the morning.
Friday, March 12, 2004
Grasshoppering
I think I'm being followed by a black hole. Am losing everything nowadays-- lost my sweater at the library last night, thought I lost my class folder at the computer kiosks yesterday (turned out I left it on my desk, bringing just my totally empty backpack to school), lost my case study for Operations class before I had a chance to read it (it's probably back at home on my bed from my abortive attempt at 3am last night), and of course, have obviously lost any semblance of a mind. Oof, mad sleepy right now, and no time to go home for a nap before 7:30, when there's a meeting to plan the summer ball. Could go to library and sleep on the couches there, but so embarrassing to imagine myself sprawled out, sleeping away while everyone else sits ramrod straight at their workstations under their belljar lamps, computers humming and textbooks rustling.
Got to class 15 minutes late this morning-- damned morning snow, coating my brain and clogging my ears. Never fails to put me back to bed. You'll be happy to hear that my car has miraculously fixed itself-- discovered yesterday that when I went to repark my car, the blink-happy temoin d'autodiagnostic moteur uttered narry a beep nor peep, so I'm going to show this gift horse into the stable and not worry overmuch about the state of its teeth, at least not until yellow lights start flashing again.
Socially, INSEAD's back in full swing. Missed a general party last night being wine-happy at a chateau dinner, and will probably do the same tonight (am excited about this one tonight, have never visited the place before). Inevitably will get too engrossed in wine and conversation to consider leaving before 2am, but I think I like dinner parties better than general invite parties anyway, with the exception of not being able to dance when the mood strikes. Friday night is our section's champagne party, at which we are scheduled to have 115 bottles of champagne for 70 students. You do the math-- there will be much spraying of bubbly and dancing on tables, I'm certain. Throughout the period, we played little games to build up the champagne contribution to an end-of-period party. You owe champagne whenever your phone rings in class, or whenever one of your neighbors comes up with a clever use of certain words in class comments. The theme for these pre-set words changed from week to week, from James Bond (octopussy) to Madonna (like a virgin). I owe three bottles, all for my blasted phone.
Saturday, the plan is to sleep through my inevitable hangover and wake up in time to go for a nice sushi dinner in Paris, after which somebody's supposed to get us on Manray's guestlist (apparently it's the tail end of fashion week, so no guest list, no entry). Oy, my liver's hurting already, but I never could say no to a party. Then a dinner party on Sunday that's Korean themed . . . mmm, yummy. And that brings us around to Monday again, our house hosts. I wonder if it's my turn to cook? Can't keep these things straight. What with the non-regular academic schedule, the hectic social pace, and my natural disinclination to organize myself, I find myself completely surprised when snippets of free time unfurl themselves at my feet. But what do I do with them? Aimless checking of email, of course, and blogging. Not a whit of work, never a hint of job search, for sure. Tomorrow, tomorrow-- it's a lovely concept, no? The grasshopper and the ant. I always thought green was a lovely color :)
I think I'm being followed by a black hole. Am losing everything nowadays-- lost my sweater at the library last night, thought I lost my class folder at the computer kiosks yesterday (turned out I left it on my desk, bringing just my totally empty backpack to school), lost my case study for Operations class before I had a chance to read it (it's probably back at home on my bed from my abortive attempt at 3am last night), and of course, have obviously lost any semblance of a mind. Oof, mad sleepy right now, and no time to go home for a nap before 7:30, when there's a meeting to plan the summer ball. Could go to library and sleep on the couches there, but so embarrassing to imagine myself sprawled out, sleeping away while everyone else sits ramrod straight at their workstations under their belljar lamps, computers humming and textbooks rustling.
Got to class 15 minutes late this morning-- damned morning snow, coating my brain and clogging my ears. Never fails to put me back to bed. You'll be happy to hear that my car has miraculously fixed itself-- discovered yesterday that when I went to repark my car, the blink-happy temoin d'autodiagnostic moteur uttered narry a beep nor peep, so I'm going to show this gift horse into the stable and not worry overmuch about the state of its teeth, at least not until yellow lights start flashing again.
Socially, INSEAD's back in full swing. Missed a general party last night being wine-happy at a chateau dinner, and will probably do the same tonight (am excited about this one tonight, have never visited the place before). Inevitably will get too engrossed in wine and conversation to consider leaving before 2am, but I think I like dinner parties better than general invite parties anyway, with the exception of not being able to dance when the mood strikes. Friday night is our section's champagne party, at which we are scheduled to have 115 bottles of champagne for 70 students. You do the math-- there will be much spraying of bubbly and dancing on tables, I'm certain. Throughout the period, we played little games to build up the champagne contribution to an end-of-period party. You owe champagne whenever your phone rings in class, or whenever one of your neighbors comes up with a clever use of certain words in class comments. The theme for these pre-set words changed from week to week, from James Bond (octopussy) to Madonna (like a virgin). I owe three bottles, all for my blasted phone.
Saturday, the plan is to sleep through my inevitable hangover and wake up in time to go for a nice sushi dinner in Paris, after which somebody's supposed to get us on Manray's guestlist (apparently it's the tail end of fashion week, so no guest list, no entry). Oy, my liver's hurting already, but I never could say no to a party. Then a dinner party on Sunday that's Korean themed . . . mmm, yummy. And that brings us around to Monday again, our house hosts. I wonder if it's my turn to cook? Can't keep these things straight. What with the non-regular academic schedule, the hectic social pace, and my natural disinclination to organize myself, I find myself completely surprised when snippets of free time unfurl themselves at my feet. But what do I do with them? Aimless checking of email, of course, and blogging. Not a whit of work, never a hint of job search, for sure. Tomorrow, tomorrow-- it's a lovely concept, no? The grasshopper and the ant. I always thought green was a lovely color :)
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Temoin
Oh, I'm cursed-- it's totally, completely, utterly obvious that the car gods HATE me. As I was driving to school today, a little yellow light suddenly started to blink at me from the dashboard, beeping insistently every few seconds. Not knowing what else to do, after checking that yes, my seat belt was on, all doors were closed, hand brake was not engaged, I shrugged and kept going. Nothing like continuous beeping to build up an ominous sense of doom, though. Made it to school without anything blowing up, and the car certainly felt like it was functioning normally. Got to school, parked, and took out the manual. It read this:
Temoin d'autodiagnostic moteur-- il s'allume a chaque mise du contact pendant queques secondes. L'allumage moteur tournant, signale un dysfonctionnement du systeme d'injection, d'allumage ou de depollution. Si le temoin clignote, il y a risque de destruction du catalyseur. Consultez un Point Service Peugeot.
Great. My systeme d'injection, d'allumage or depollution is disfunctioning, and there's a risk that my catalyseur is going to be destroyed. Better go see the Peugeot dealer again. They say it's the little things in life that make it worth living. If that's the case, never move to France-- it's the little things that never, ever work properly or on time, and the little things that'll drive you batty.
Other than that, welcome back to INSEAD! Ah school life with its haze of multicultural faces here and there and everywhere. So many of them now familiar enough to say hi and smile and echoe a couple of vacation pleasantries, but so few close enough to have any substantial lines or conversations to pick up from before. Had a plate of fries for lunch today because nothing else looked appetizing (in the end, the fries weren't all that appetizing either). I think I'm still in mourning that my vacation has really ended. What a glorious vacation, full of nothing but my favorite foods and people whenever I felt like them-- ice cream in the morning, eggs at 3pm, Macdonald's in bed with french fries for my cat. Sucks to have a schedule again.
Housemates have gotten back from Singapore. Met one last night, one this morning. Have to get used to not being able to traipse around nekked all the time (have switched to bringing my change of clothes with me into the bathroom so I can be dressed when I come out, but that leads to having to put on half-steamed clothes. Yick, must buy big bathrobe soon). Am already behind on classwork (fell asleep on options pricing theory last night) and haven't a clue as to my class schedule (will print out today). Business as usual, as usual.
Okay, time for class. Sigh . . . .
Oh, I'm cursed-- it's totally, completely, utterly obvious that the car gods HATE me. As I was driving to school today, a little yellow light suddenly started to blink at me from the dashboard, beeping insistently every few seconds. Not knowing what else to do, after checking that yes, my seat belt was on, all doors were closed, hand brake was not engaged, I shrugged and kept going. Nothing like continuous beeping to build up an ominous sense of doom, though. Made it to school without anything blowing up, and the car certainly felt like it was functioning normally. Got to school, parked, and took out the manual. It read this:
Temoin d'autodiagnostic moteur-- il s'allume a chaque mise du contact pendant queques secondes. L'allumage moteur tournant, signale un dysfonctionnement du systeme d'injection, d'allumage ou de depollution. Si le temoin clignote, il y a risque de destruction du catalyseur. Consultez un Point Service Peugeot.
Great. My systeme d'injection, d'allumage or depollution is disfunctioning, and there's a risk that my catalyseur is going to be destroyed. Better go see the Peugeot dealer again. They say it's the little things in life that make it worth living. If that's the case, never move to France-- it's the little things that never, ever work properly or on time, and the little things that'll drive you batty.
Other than that, welcome back to INSEAD! Ah school life with its haze of multicultural faces here and there and everywhere. So many of them now familiar enough to say hi and smile and echoe a couple of vacation pleasantries, but so few close enough to have any substantial lines or conversations to pick up from before. Had a plate of fries for lunch today because nothing else looked appetizing (in the end, the fries weren't all that appetizing either). I think I'm still in mourning that my vacation has really ended. What a glorious vacation, full of nothing but my favorite foods and people whenever I felt like them-- ice cream in the morning, eggs at 3pm, Macdonald's in bed with french fries for my cat. Sucks to have a schedule again.
Housemates have gotten back from Singapore. Met one last night, one this morning. Have to get used to not being able to traipse around nekked all the time (have switched to bringing my change of clothes with me into the bathroom so I can be dressed when I come out, but that leads to having to put on half-steamed clothes. Yick, must buy big bathrobe soon). Am already behind on classwork (fell asleep on options pricing theory last night) and haven't a clue as to my class schedule (will print out today). Business as usual, as usual.
Okay, time for class. Sigh . . . .
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