Of cookies, curries and teddies

Dear all, I was flying into Seattle in January to attend the beta class of a new management development programme which we were due to launch in EMEA in April 2006. Training classes are treated like software releases and we follow a similar process-hence the “beta”. 

I boarded the regular BA49 to Seattle  It looked on time, but on boarding we had the familiar jocular announcement from the pilot (this always means terrible news)… 

The captain told us that there was a problem (told you so); in that the baggage recording software had failed and they couldn’t reconcile baggage on the computer to baggage on the plane, and that we would have to wait for reconciliation before take off. Sent a text to my wife complaining, and she replied, “don’t say who you work for or they’ll ask you to rewrite the software yourself”. 

I decided to shut up. Eventually took off about an hour late but caught up some time in flight. 

I had an uneventful passage through US immigration. Met two trainers from the vendor company delivering the class I was attending. As we waited at the carousel, one of them talked about an amusing list of new (English) words (neologisms).  I loved one which I thought was particularly apposite. He defined : 

“Sluggage- luggage which you check in and which is last off the plane. “ (for non-native speakers this combines “sluggish”- very slow, and “luggage” – baggage carried when you travel. 

Needless to say I had the most sluggish sluggage on the flight.. We successfully left the airport and took a taxi to the hotel. This time we were in a different hotel. Still a major chain (Doubletree) but outside the town centre so quite cheaper. As well as being more out of town, the hotel was more dowdy and in need of refurbishment. 

Agreed to meet the trainers at a restaurant called Manzana’s in Bellevue.  Arrived at the hotel and eventually checked in. When I did so I was given a “warm cookie” by the receptionist. Apparently this hotel places great store in providing clients with this token of their hospitality- my only problem is that I hate cookies- I do not discriminate between hot and cold cookies. You might as well give me warm roadkill. 

Big hotels- please add to your list of issues to cover on your “working with other cultures”- “Not everyone likes cookies-hot or cold”. Unpacked and met my German colleague in reception. We ordered a hotel shuttle to take us to the restaurant) to join our colleagues from the training company.  

The Seattle area was somewhat excited at this time, since they were approaching the record for the most continuous days of rain since records began. On this evening the weather seemed to be shooting for the “biggest rainfall in a single day” record. On the Sunday morning despite agreeing to meet at 9.30 for breakfast, my German colleague didn’t join me at the appointed time (she slept in- good luck to her). 

 The lady who served me at breakfast seemed to be of pensionable age, and somewhat impatient; (if you are non-native please look up the word “irascible” which is more accurate. When jetlagged on a Sunday I hate being harangued by someone who I am indirectly paying. Anyway ate, breakfast alone and set off to explore the city centre. 

Perhaps I betray my nationality but I do not find Bellevue exciting. The walk (unusual in the US)  takes you from the Doubletree to the outskirts of the city centre. A left turn from SE 112^th St leads you up a seriously steep incline for about 100 yards- tough on pedestrians but easier if you are driving.  I walked along “Main Street” – I guess now an anachronism – and saw after a mile some of the older (pre 1950) parts of town. These were quaint, but after about two blocks it seemed to be drifting back to suburbia so I headed back to the hub- Bellevue Square. 

A walk through an immaculate park led me back to the city centre. I mooched around the centre and settled on a pub/microbrewery on NE 106^th St called Rock Bottom Brewery. It’s one of these places where the beer vats are visible from the bar. The lady serving that day was called Bridget, and she was one of the great bartenders (I use the American word- tribute enough). Bridget was attractive and outgoing. She spoke to the native Spanish speakers en Espanol. She told clients about deals to save them money. I was in love. 

My mobile rang, my colleague from Germany. 15 minutes later she had joined me and we had lunch. Back to the hotel to prepare for the Train the trainer. As well as us two Europeans there were three US vendors, Ron, Kevin and Leanne. Quickly saw why they had been hired. 

Afternoon uneventful, then we went to dinner in a Thai restaurant owned by a neighbour/friend of a US colleague. Noted that she and her husband were mentioned in the menu for their contribution to the creation of the menu. Felt a slight pang of jealousy- I feel that my contribution to restaurants deserves at least a lifetime achievement award, if not a specific Oscar.  Kevin left early- he clearly has thespian connections, and a niece was appearing in a TV series being launched on network TV that night. 

Next day I was an observer on the class. Class interesting, especially as one delegate was Mr Perfect, and used every conversation to underline his already achieved perfection. I may have been alone in wanting to garrotte him but I doubt it. Returned to the hotel to find a cold cookie staring at me accusingly. 

Next day rather disconcerting- in talking to my wife it transpired that my daughter (who is pretty ill anyway) had started having unexplained convulsions. Said I would fly back next day but Janice said “No, you won’t be any help so stay put”. Sometimes she says the loveliest things… 

Went for a long walk that evening in some disquiet. As a displacement activity I set myself the task of locating the two Indian restaurants in central Bellevue.  If you remember Amarjit from a few months previously, when I asked his help in locating them he implied they were great distances from my normal hotel. Having researched the addresses on the internet I quickly found the better known one. It looked a little too plush and touristy so went in search of the other one. The further was a  7 minute walk, the latter two from my normal hotel. 

Was deeply frustrated when I found the second- I’d had a previous unsuccessful attempt, and when I found it realised it had been less than 300 yards from my usual base. I read an article posted outside the restaurant (the Moghul Palace), which suggested that this was actually Bill Gates’s favourite Indian restaurant, and that he was a great fan of a  particular starter (mussels in garlic chilli sauce mopped up with naan bread). 

Decided to try it later in the week and wandered back to the hotel. 

Rest of the week uneventful- course going as expected- no great reflections apart from Mr Perfect Manager causing me to grope for that thin wire. Thursday night was interesting. As part of the class, one team had to organise a charity event. They went at it great guns and on the Thursday night they organised an event in the hotel to raise money (raising over $8000).  They had acquired artwork from local artists (some really good stuff) which they auctioned off. 

The main feature however was “auction karaoke”. Someone had organised a karaoke machine, and the idea was that you could nominate a sum of money to get someone else to sing for a fee. If they didn’t want to sing they had to outbid you. An Irish colleague bid $600 for a colleague called Danny to sing “Oh Danny boy.” Most people would have paid the same for him to leave town. Recognising the risks I consulted the song list for a suitable song. 

 I didn’t know that the machine had a device that allowed it to change key, so instead was applying Gary’s karaoke rule 1 which  is “make sure the song is in a key you can reach.  (I should point out that at this point I had never, ever sung in a karaoke prior to this evening-I’ve had my shirt publicly removed another time but that’s another tale). 

My second rule, based again not on personal participation , but purely as a victim (sorry, listener), I advise that you should not sing any song that is very fast, especially when it is syncopated (requires you to sing counterpoint outside of the main beat).  I have  heard many ladies get into trouble singing Aretha Franklin’s R-E-S-P-E-C-T.  

You need to be very musical and sober to attempt this. Unless your first name is Aretha, if you feel you can do it successfully it probably means you are drunk. Anyhow I settled on Elton John’s “Your Song”- about my key and slow allowing for corrective action. 

Eventually the inevitable happened and $60 was offered so I went to discharge my responsibility. One of the unexpected effects was that each song had a background  video. On looking at the screen with the words you could also see the video playing behind you. 

To fit the tempo of the song the video showed a winsome lady disrobing for the bath. Halfway through the second verse (of two) I quipped “Can someone write an extra verse fast please?” 

Probably the gag that did it,  but my price went up for future songs (Is that good?). Also cornered the Lionel Richie market as preferred male to sing soppy duets with, (Endless Love, They long to be close to you, etc.). The evening ended with community singing of songs like “The Boys are Back in Town”. 

I went to bed at 1am which was way before the zombies who appeared next day. The course finished Friday lunchtime, then back to the TTT.  

Made it through to 6pm with a free evening in prospect. Decided to walk to the lesser known curry house. As a real aficionado of Indian restaurants, it can be  a drawback  that the menus are often identical (ignoring price) so it’s hard to order something new. 

The starter that the article said Bill Gates loved, (Mussels in garlic chilli sauce) was really unusual (don’t know that it’s at all authentic).  I ordered some as I have had the pakoras, kebabs, bhajis and so on. It was truly heavenly. The garlic sauce was like a soup and mopped up with naan left me very badly placed to even contemplate a main course. Go there and try it. 

Bill, if you indeed are  the populariser of this dish, I have a culinary Oscar of my own for you. Walked back to my hotel in a rosy glow, somewhat diminished by the accusing look from my cold stale cookie on my return. Cookies can be very unforgiving. 

Next day (Saturday) was the final day of the “train the trainer” with two memorable occurrences. One was the outbreak of some discontent amongst  the American externals. This was somewhat understandable- the company has been carrying out a tendering process which might mean they were potentially out of business with us, so I could understand their mixed loyalties in the circumstances. We lost a lot of time on this, but I felt for them in their conflict. The second was much funnier. We had to play a game called “Dancing Cones” this was a typical team game where you had a planning phase, followed by a session where you had to execute in minimum time without the chance to correct.  

We all had cones which we had in each hand , the idea being to form different patterns (Rectangles, stars etc.) in minimum time with smoothness being a  criterion for success, and communication in the execution phase being banned.  We were spectacularly bad. As some of the patterns required an odd number of  cones so we agreed I would kneel and raise a cone at the right point. 

Our performance was pathetic. We redefined terrible.   When it came to doing it live, our planning was inadequate.  

My offer to kneel was based on the assumption that we would stay still, so when my next door neighbour Julie started moving. I tried crawling towards her to maintain the pattern ( not easy to crawl when you are on your knees and cannot use your hands). I spent the longest 45 seconds of my life  chasing her around crawling semi upright,  on my knees, and did the only decent thing  at the end i.e. propose marriage.  

She cruelly rejected me on the grounds that we were both already married to other people, somewhat to the chagrin of the members of the public standing in the public area of the hotel where we were making fools of ourselves. Some were visibly upset at this spurned romance.  I have been back to Seattle  since and Julie has turned  down two subsequent kneeling proposals. Fickle. 

After the TTT ended we agreed to go for a celebration drink. The suggestion was we go to a new bar which was also a pool hall. I wasn’t that impressed by the idea but went along. Walked into this new bar in a new building in the city centre. Stopped at reception by an earnest lady who wanted photographic evidence that I was over 21. I only had my passport which I had left in my hotel, but pointed that I was over twice the minimum age. 

She said that they only had a provisional  “liquor” licence, and couldn’t risk letting me in. I had to explain to my colleagues that we had to go elsewhere.  My German colleague said that she thought that I should be grateful that anyone should even imply that I looked less than 21 years old. Thanks friend. 

After a drink at Manzana’s, a walk to Bellevue’s premier seafood restaurant. We were lucky to get a table in terms of how busy the restaurant was.  I found the place somewhat fussy- the food was good but it clearly placed a lot of reputation on being upscale, and I wasn’t stunned that the food was that much better.. 

Back to the hotel with my German colleague. We had a great chat, but the highlight for me was walking past a “window” and seeing that below was a sort of night club on a lower floor. I hate to be cruel, but imagine a “Disco of the Desperates” from the John Travolta Saturday Night Fever era. Each person on view embodied a silent anguish for a partner and even through the glass 10m above you could almost smell the desperation. It was really poignant. 

Cherish your relationships. Sunday I (guiltily) threw away the accusing cold, stale, mouldering cookie, and took a walk around town, followed by lunch with my German colleague in a restaurant. Walk back to the hotel, and a trip to the hotel shop.  

I am a sucker for small teddy bears (hint), and I had seen a small multicoloured hippy  teddy which advertised Seattle on sale. I thought the colours were cool. I spent most of my remaining dollars buying one for Janice.  

When I arrived home I carefully arranged a party for our collection of teddy bears on our bed (ok I did buy most of them), where the new unnamed bear joined Scruffy, Lucy, Bertha, Colin, George W (a gorilla who bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain US president) and the others.  Janice looked slightly pained on discovering (yet another) Ted- clearly she does not fully understand the importance of teddies. 

“I’ll call it “Psycho”” she said. “Why Psycho?” I asked. 

Short for “psychodelic” said Janice. And you thought my sense of humour was sick…..

Two trips to Amsterdam

I had trips to
Amsterdam in successive weeks.  A treat for me as I love
Holland and the Dutch. The first was to attend an EMEA HR meeting. The flight was refreshingly without incident, and I had the delights of Burger King cuisine  for a 3.30pm lunch (who said business travel isn’t glamourous?). 

Taxi thence to the “American Hotel” in
Amsterdam, close to Leidseplein. My room was in the roof.  Tradition has it that young struggling artists and writers freeze to death in garrets while trying to make it big. At the American Hotel you can experience the same thing for only 170 Euros a night-the room was arctic and the heating feeble. 

After a long sequence of conference calls I strolled out around Leidseplein doing my traditional people watching, and trying to avoid eye contact with the restaurant hustlers (Leidseplein has an amazing number of restaurants, and because of the competition many of them have hustlers outside whose job is to strike up conversation with you and persuade you inside their restaurant. After a while I settled upon an Indian restaurant- it was a little off the main area so I thought it would be less touristy.  It was pretty empty when I arrived and within ten minutes other guests left and I was alone.  

My starter arrived, and tasted good. At this stage the (I assume) proprietors (husband and wife) came and sat at a table near me. “How is your food?” asked mine host. “Great” I replied. The couple proceeded to watch as I placed each mouthful in my mouth. “How is your food now” he asked after 3 more mouthfuls. “Still great” I said. The couple switched to an animated conversation in an Asian language which they conducted with great energy and urgency. They seemed very worried about something, and my enjoyment of the food was somewhat diminished by the succession of worried looks, semi-whispered conversation and unflinching scrutiny of every mouthful. This continued throughout the main course (along with the “How is your food now?” questions) to the point where I was wondering if they were expecting me to drop dead of food poisoning. In many restaurants you don’t get enough attention- in this one it was intrusive to the point of ruining my enjoyment. Thence off to a bar (Café
Luxembourg) where we were meeting for cocktails and socialising).  

The next morning was a typical meeting with a series of presentations- the afternoon was more interesting. A Dutch speaker called Ted Troost came to speak to us. He was an older guy, with quite a florid face (I couldn’t help but think he had sunk a few beers in his time). It wasn’t always easy to understand what Ted was trying to say, as his English was not up to the amazing standard that most Dutch people emulate, but his main message was about the importance of really connecting as people rather than being superficial with each other- better to really connect and disagree than to ignore each other.  

One of Ted’s suggestions caused some amusement. Talking about his connection theme, he used an example of when you are on a plane, you can frequently get into a battle with someone sat next to you over who gets to use the armrest- if one person lifts their arm the other one takes the place quickly. Ted’s suggestion was that you should not take the armrest, but let them replace their arm, and then rest your arm on top of theirs. Something to try on your next flight- holds your fellow passenger’s hand…… He also had his audience performing a series of exercises. Opinion was pretty divided about whether he was good- some found the exercises disturbing (“mass hypnosis” was one comment), some found him extremely inspiring. 

Anyway we broke for the evening, and took a canal trip through
Amsterdam to our restaurant. I would really recommend a canal trip in
Amsterdam; it’s a great way to see the city. This trip was a little less good, as it was dark, there was loud music playing and no commentary but I had a great chat with some colleagues from
Eastern Europe. We docked at the restaurant, a trendy place with deafening music.  My left ear gets blocked easily and my hearing is diminished- so I really struggle in very noisy environments. I made a note that for my team meeting the following week I would ensure that the restaurants were quieter. Back again the next week, but staying at an airport hotel as the company offices are out of town on an airport industrial park. On landing at Schiphol I took a shuttle bus to the hotel. A trip into the office to catch up on mail/ the inevitable conference calls, etc. 

I hate being stuck in hotels where there is no where to go and you are forced to use the restaurant and pay whatever price they ask. Enquiries at the desk said that a 2km walk would take me to a small town called Aalsmeer (meer in Dutch I think means a stretch of water like a lake). Aalsmeer is very neat and pretty, and has a really interesting large windmill which is prominent in the town centre. A study of the town centre suggested   only a couple of restaurants and a disreputable looking bar. I tried the latter first (you would expect nothing less).   The limited clientele was exclusively male and disreputable looking and entirely Dutch speaking. Knowing I only met the first two criteria I ordered my beer in Dutch (I even ordered a small Dutch size beer as a larger English size glass would have been a giveaway). The bartender clearly knew I was not Dutch and even replied to me in English, but I resolutely stuck to Dutch, albeit thereby seriously limiting the conversation to the purely transactional. 

A short to walk to another Indian restaurant. From the outside the restaurant looked a little unpromising. There was an Indian style snack bar at the front selling samosas etc, but from the street you couldn’t see the restaurant part and the snack bar didn’t look very salubrious. Anyway I was cold so I thought I’d give it a go. I was relieved on passing through the door to see that the restaurant décor was classic English Indian restaurant decoration (not quite flock wallpaper but you know what I mean). The waiter greeted me in English before I had opened my mouth, and I was taken aback trying to figure out how he had guessed. Anyway as I studied the menu I rapidly realised from his conversation with other customers, that he had spoken to me in English because he spoke no other (non-Asian) language and not as a result of good detective work in observing me. 

A lady came out from the kitchen (I think the waiter’s wife) – perhaps they are the proprietors. She too spoke only English to the customers, and explained to a couple (who appeared to be far more interested in staring into each others’ eyes) how they had run a restaurant in

Brick Lane

in London but have moved to
Holland for a better life. 

Brick Lane is an area in the east end of London, famous for being a  place where an  impoverished wave of immigrants can get their foothold in London, before working their way up and moving to leafier places. Currently

Brick Lane

is home to a thriving Bangladeshi community and famous in
London as a great place to get a cheap curry. 

These folks had moved on to
Holland (maybe for the majestic mountain scenery). As the lady continued her litany of reasons why the Netherlands was superior to the
UK, to her audience who were having their romantic night out interrupted, her 4 year old daughter came out, a little overtired, and proceeded to converse with everyone in the restaurant in turn. With the élan and fearlessness of young children, she had been to kindergarten in
Holland for a while, and I reflected that fluency in Dutch, Bengali and Cockney must be an unusual trilingual combination. Back to the hotel where I met with a colleague who had just had his laptop stolen at Schiphol. A classic distraction theft.  

I’m a great believer in never letting go of any luggage at any time, or at least having a limb in contact so you can feel it if it moves.  He had put his bags down at the shuttle bus stop and was approached by someone who kept asking him dumb questions about where to queue for which shuttle. The guy played dumb and kept up the questions, and while my colleague was distracted by the “idiot” an accomplice was stealing the lap top bag. Watch out for this ruse when travelling. Commiserated over a beer before bed. 

The next day I was travelling with a colleague to assess a potential supplier for our MD training. We were driven to a house which they use for off sites. The house was an amazing detached property which they had spent a fortune on furnishing. The theme was about different aspects of change, and each room was done out in spectacular décor. The first room where we met was like the library of an English mansion, all oak panelling and books. The next was done out like a captain’s mess on a boat, complete with background maritime noises via a public address system. Another room was completely white- all the furniture including a grand piano, floor, walls ceiling were a shining white. I hated this room -I was expecting the pianist Liberace to pop up from the dead at any instant. Other rooms included the Christmas room, Grandma’s room (tradition and security), a 1950s style diner room and a few others. It was amazingly done out, but I was struggling to understand what most of it had to do with change management. 

We then had interviews with some of their management trainers. This was rather painful as many fell into the “Nice guy but……” category and on occasion I struggled to spin out the conversation to keep it to a respectable length so as not to indicate too drastically that the discussion was effectively over. Team meeting went well. One amusing factor was that one of my team mates had never had lunch in staff restaurant in
Holland.  

For those of you who haven’t experienced one, the Dutch at work seem to consider lunch more as a refuelling stop than a great culinary experience. In many staff restaurants, lunch consists of a few hot high cholesterol snacks (which few people have), and an array of bread in various types. With your chosen bread you buy very thinly sliced cooked meats and/or cheese individually wrapped in cellophane, and construct your own sandwiches, washed down with a glass of milk (or buttermilk). It’s a sort of DIY store for sandwich ingredients. My colleague was clearly amazed at the amount of packaging that had to be negotiated in order to construct a sandwich. The flight back was eventful. Sitting in an aisle seat I was joined in the seat on the other side, by a lady who was both expensively dressed and very keen to be attention grabbing. 

 Wearing an expensive black suit with a shorter than average skirt, complemented by fishnet tights, she was so determined to draw attention to herself that she sat down placing her legs out into the aisle to attract further attention, and proceeded to take out a make up bag so that she could spend the flight admiring herself in the mirror and touching up imaginary flaws in her make-up. I tend to react badly to excessive attention-seeking and resolved to stick aggressively to my book. My book proved to be exceedingly tedious, so plan B was to close my eyes and doze for the duration of the flight. I was rudely shaken from dreamland by a cascade of water. A cabin crew attendant had (I presume) bumped into Ms Lookatme’s legs whilst carrying a tray of glasses of water, and overbalancing, thereby dumping the contents into my innocent lap. I’m sure his eyes were focused strictly on where he was going. 

With my luggage in the hold, and no change of clothes immediately available, I looked like a bad case of Rapid Incontinence Onset Syndrome, or perhaps Mae West would have had another explanation. I reflected that had I only used Ted T’s Tried and Trusted Touching Technique  maybe all this could have been avoided. 

Anyway, no problem occupying myself for the rest of the flight trying to dry a gallon of water with a dozen paper towels, finally leaving the plane to stand dripping in the baggage hall awaiting a chance to change my clothes. Ah, the romance of travel……. 

More sleep in Seattle

Dear all, After Dublin, another trip to Seattle.  

I arrived at Heathrow, and couldn’t check in electronically. In a bad mood I joined a queue and eventually checked in.  My mood was somewhat lifted when I heard that the flight was full and I was being upgraded to business class. Boarded flight and was seated next to a very pleasant Belgian  lady, who worked for Johnson and Johnson. She struck up a conversation and I was interested that they automatically allow business class for all flights over so many hours. Then she also bought a £100 power lead to type emails (which she couldn’t send). I wish my email inbox were so important. 

Landed on time in Seattle, and my first landing in the International terminal (last time I flew via Chicago).  

Seattle has a very curious system. You land at S (I assume South) terminal and after you go through Immigration, collect your bag and go through Customs. You have to travel from here via a train to the main terminal. This in itself is not unusual, except that bags are not allowed on these trains, so having just collected your bag, you have to surrender it again, and re-collect at the main terminal.  The trains are regular and you arrive quickly- I arrived before my newly (re) surrendered bag, but the final baggage belt seems to be open to the public so I don’t understand why theft is not more frequent.  Anyway, picked up my bags and off to taxi rank, arriving in Bellevue, which was no longer thumping with pile drivers. I slept much better all trip. Being tired on arrival I ate at a chain called “Red Robin”, who call themselves a “gourmet burger” restaurant”. Hard to translate my thoughts on “gourmet burger”, but I am reminded of a sketch from a great  1980s UK comedy series. 

One of the great marketing feats of the last 30 years in the UK was the creation of “Beaujolais nouveau”. The French created this brilliant marketing idea, involving having a race in early November to get this low quality wine to the UK in the fastest possible time on the day of “release”. For the gullible it was a great deal to be first to taste this dubious vintage. By definition Beaujolais nouveau  was “this year’s”, and in the comedy the insouciant, would-be snob, orders in 1983  “a Beaujolais nouveau- the 1978 vintage” I view “Gourmet burgers” as “1975 Beaujolais nouveau”, but  the “restaurant” is close to the hotel and the non-burger dishes are ok after a 26 hour day. 

Lengthy sleep (building work complete) and off to office in a “town car” next day.  The “town car” (in England “minicab”, but in the US a new Lexus), which took me there, was driven by an Indian guy called Amarjit. One feature of the town cars is that they are very keen to gain repeat business, but I was happy to let Amarjit pick me up on the return journey, as he understood the idea of “safe stopping distance”- see my Dublin adventure (and later). 

Dinner that evening in a “family dining” Italian restaurant.  Do not go to an “Italian family dining restaurant” alone. “Italian family dining” roughly translates as “portions for eight”. My bill was almost as much for the bottle of wine as for the food, but if I had the means of storage I could have avoided buying another dinner all week. 

Following evening I had dinner with a colleague, in a chain restaurant called “McCormick and Schmidt’s”. I turned up 10 minutes ahead of schedule, and seeing the foyer heaving, asked for a reservation. I was told we would have to wait an hour, so added my name to the list in case. When my colleague arrived I explained we had at least 45 minutes to wait, and  she said she wasn’t willing to wait that long. I went back to the desk to remove my name out of fairness. Interestingly, they showed us to a table immediately (worth a go in future, I thought). Not a bad meal.  Amarjit came on time next day and took me to Redmond. He had an interesting habit of calling my room when arrived and calling me “Mr. Gary”.  

I was bemused when he picked me up at the end of the day, a little late. From the warmth of the office lobby I could see the car, and it obviously had a front seat passenger so I assumed it was another car. However it stayed, and as time got later I went out to investigate, to discover that the front seat passenger was Mrs. Amarjit- and they were off to Hindu temple after dropping me off. Amarjit even said I should settle up next day, such was his hurry. Next day after work I went into Seattle to meet a colleague for dinner.  

Had a great experience going into Seattle. The route I-95 crosses Lake Washington on the “floating bridge”. I don’t know if it literally floats but it’s hundreds of yards long and you can see the water lapping at the sides at about your height- very disconcerting when  you are immobile in a traffic jam in mid-lake (adds a new dimension to “no man’s land”, but also incredibly beautiful).  Had an interesting beer in a microbrewery next to the Seattle market. Seattle prides itself on its inhabitants being a little more cosmopolitan than most, and this seemed true to me. I heard a variety of conversations about politics, the world news etc. which was unusual. Quite an erudite bunch. 

Off to meet my colleague and to a Thai restaurant. They denied any knowledge of any reservation, and promised us a 90 minute wait. Learning from earlier experience I said we would go, but they didn’t let us jump the queue and we left to find somewhere else. Walking around 1^st,2^nd and 3^rd Streets my colleague saw a “Brazilian” restaurant, and asked me about what I knew of Brazilian cuisine. My comment was “if it’s anything like Argentinian it’s best to be a carnivore”. We went an and were ignored for 20 minutes , which we filled by going to the salad bar. When a waitress finally decided we were staying she came and explained the process. We had a beer mat/coaster next to us- one side green- one red. When you turn green side up the guys who wander around with roasted animals on spits, carve a slab off for you and keep going until you turn it over to red. Meat heaven. At this point my colleague chose to tell me he was vegetarian. We asked the staff what was vegetarian on the menu and they said “the salad bar”. My colleague pushed his lettuce around his plate, and I out of sympathy, declined food (meat) on the basis that he didn’t have anything else to eat. He told me he had to finish early as he had a 3am conference call. I wasn’t sure that this was true but I wasn’t arguing. A hugely unsatisfying dinner for all. 

Had dinner the following night with some colleagues in a restaurant called the “Cheesecake factory” (guess this trip is memorable for eating).  I had ignored this restaurant on the basis that it presumably majored on desserts, but was amazed to see that whilst this was true, they had a comprehensive  menu of other courses too. Whilst a good name in view of their bewildering selection of cheesecake, it’s terrible marketing in that I had walked past it many times assuming it only sold puddings. 

Back to the hotel and decided to have a last beer in the hotel bar. Watched an amazing American football rerun game. Don’t panic, I have not become a fan.  This game was an “Apple Cup” game. There are two principal Universities in Washington State, and they play each other every year in a game (the Apple Cup) that divides marriages in its local intensity. 

 The potential for marital division in this particular game was mitigated by the fact that it was played in a blizzard, creating a slapstick sport. It was truly captivating to see a game  in which skill was virtually eliminated. My reverie was broken by Nathan (on my right).  

Nathan had written a book on Strategic Sales.  Nathan had flown into town to teach our people how to sell.  

Nathan was going to make me a project. When he heard what I did Nathan notched up another gear.  I was bombarded with questions about what were my goals in life/this year/ my action plans, etc., etc. 

I politely pointed out that I had only signed up for a quiet beer and not a high pressure life coaching session. Nathan backed off for several seconds. Nathan knew the guy on his right, who manages a restaurant in the local precinct. This guy described himself as an “Eskimo”. I queried whether the term Inuit was not more politically correct, as I thought that “Inuit” was now the preferred term. He was quite vociferous that the Inuits were only from certain tribes and that his bunch were Eskimos. Apparently his mother, a single mum teacher, had won a scholarship to do a secondment teaching elsewhere and had volunteered for a remote Eskimo community taking two sons to minus whatever. He had become bilingual American/Eskimo as  a result. An Eskimo (self-named) running a Tex-Mex restaurant. Hmm…. 

Soon Nathan and this guy wandered off into a discussion on the merits of Nordstrom shirts. Nordstrom is a chain in the US (a bit like Marks and Spencer in the UK). When the discussion moved onto the merits of their shirt cuffs and button layout I decided it was time to retreat. Next day I had a late afternoon meeting, and was relying on Amarjit to get me back to the airport. Amarjit was late for once and I called him in some alarm. He apologized profusely and said he would be there in 10 minutes. He took about 15. I got into the car slightly concerned about getting to the airport on time. 

Concerned about being late, Amarjit was transformed. from safe driver into Indianapolis 5000 maniac. The run to the airport was hugely congested but Amarjit squeezed his vehicle into every gap as we swerved our way to SEATAC (Seattle-Tacoma International airport)  and did the run in only 40 minutes despite gridlock.. By comparison to Amarjit on this occasion, the previous cab drivers who had caused me such angst were mere “bimblers”.  (You won’t find the word “bimbler” in any dictionary (yet). It was coined many years ago (I can’t take the credit)  by Graham Hawke, an ex-colleague of mine.  

In the UK there is a type of driver, usually old, and living in the country. As you drive at speed along a high speed road, they sit at a side road (usually in a Volvo), leaving it to the last second to pull out onto the main road and forcing you to brake frantically  to avoid collision, (“I have a crumple zone , do ya feel lucky punk?”), accelerating eventually to a nippy 20m/ 30km per hour and generally driving you mad.  When I commuted from Cheltenham to London I was regularly driven to the point of murderousness by the West Oxfordshire Formation Bimblers, dedicated to spending their active retirement driving working people insane). 

When we arrived at the terminal after a truly white knuckle ride, Amarjit, when I had paid, offered me two quarters as an apology for my having to call him. I pointed out I was using a company mobile (cell), and tried to stop my hands shaking. A new twist on departure. After 9/11 the latest requirement of the Department of Homeland Security is that you swipe your passport photo, give fingerprints and photos when you leave, to prove you are still the same when you came.  

Into the BA lounge, to see a sign saying “Washington state law prohibits the provision of self-service alcohol”. Hence in the lounge the BA staff were run ragged trying to keep serving drinks to people. My impression was that they drank more- “get your order in while you can” I may give offence here, but I did laugh when I read the Seattle “Post-Intelligencer” , a slightly highbrow local paper. 

 In the cultural section was an advert for a show “Menopause- the Musical” (honestly). “A must see pilgrimage for men”.  My first thought was “I hope the tunes are good.”, and then I thought “What songs could you write for such a musical?” 

(The next section may not be in the best possible taste- but some ideas I came up with). LADIES’ Section 

“Looking for some hot flush baby this evening” (sorry Donna). R-E-S-P HRT (You know what it means to me) – (Just a little bit) (apologies Aretha) 

The MEN’S bit seemed scarier 

 I thought of  “Do ya think I’m sexy?” 

“Tonight’s the night” “Hot legs” 

“I’m too sexy for my shirt” And so on… 

Key learning for me was that (including every Rod Stewart song from 1978 to 1983), that the male menopause songs I had thought of didn’t seem to need to be amended at all, (is this me?)  which was truly scary. If I am wrong in my assessment of the male menopause  I look forward to your comments, or suggestions for other songs which would be good for “Menopause, the Musical” 

Love to get a female (unattributable) set of views Yours menopausally Gary

The incident of the FAA approved child seat

The week after my trip to Paris I was off to Dublin. This was a big deal for me as my parents came from there, and it’s some time since I have been back (no more marriages or deaths for a while).  I tried to set up an evening with some relatives but they were all out of town/washing their hair, etc. I can take a hint… 

I again had the experience of turning up at the airport with several calls scheduled before my flight, to have most of them cancelled. However the one call that happened overran and I was surprised that boarding is much more on time nowadays, at least on British Midland flights.  I boarded, sat down and settled down to the crossword. It all went badly wrong a little later. Directly in front of me were a family who had booked a row of seats. The  (American) husband (13E) had booked seats for himself, his wife (D) and (unusually) his young child (about 9 months-F). Normally parents don’t book seats for kids of this age, and seat them on their laps for takeoff and landing, using extension seatbelts. This parent had booked a separate seat for his child, and had installed something like a child car seat in 13F. Obviously his intent was to sit the child in the seat he had paid for (though clearly when booking he had not told the airline of his intended usage). I did note before the fun began that he was a wearing a fleece emblazoned with the Ebay logo.  (If you are a complete moron then neither wear corporate clothing, nor speak with any discernible accent. You either discredit your company, your nation, or both ). 

Life got exciting when the cabin crew began their security checks. The lead cabin crew guy took one look at the seat and said, “I’m sorry, our airline safety regulations do not permit rear facing child seats”.  The ensuing eruption would have buried not merely Pompeii and Herculaneum but most of Italy.  

In the interest of not offending my American readers I should add that I doubt that my subject was ever a diplomat, (or at least I sincerely hope not). Ebay man was apoplectic and whilst  yelling at the top of his voice, rummaged in his rucksack, triumphantly retrieving a booklet. 

 In a note of triumph he announced to the plane (highlighting a page), “there, it says in the manufacturer’s manual that it’s FAA approved” (Federal Aviation Authority- the US aviation regulator). “I can fly anywhere in US airspace with this seat, and have done” The chief steward  explained that this was not in FAA controlled airspace ( I would swear in a court of law that he added “yet” under his breath.)  

 Ebay man demanded that he produce the regulation that prohibited  rear facing child seats. Many minutes later the steward returned with a loose leaf page (number 1236 as I recall)  which confirmed the regulation).  Our visitor “friend” remonstrated while crumpling the loose leaf page. I wondered whether airlines were allowed to fly if their safety manuals were crumpled. 

Grumblings of discontent began in the seats around me – my next door neighbour muttered “you are not in a taxi”.  At this point I tried (foolishly) to intervene. I suggested that  , as this gentleman had  bought a ticket with the airline, he had accepted their terms and conditions, and that therefore , no matter how unenlightened he considered them to be, he was bound by these. 

My new acquaintance retorted that he had a right to insist on a valid seat being used on a flight.. My retort was that he had not agreed his usage of the seat and that his “right” was merely to keep 150 people waiting while he pursued his futile Quixotic crusade.- the end result would be that he would be faced with airport security and compliance or ejection

An hour elapsed while he (and his wife) went through several stages of negotiation, eventually culminating in the point where security came and he/they was/were faced with the decision I had outlined previously, “Either comply or get off the plane”. 

As this ultimatum was delivered, a voice from several rows behind declaimed  “I suppose dumping them all in the Irish sea isn’t an option”. Anyway, thanks to this debate, and storm force winds in the Dublin area we landed 90 minutes late.  

Scurrying through to the taxi rank (hand luggage) I was quickly out of the airport and spent a few minutes complaining to the driver about my new-found acquaintance. Biographical note-both my parents were from Dublin- my mum from a less genteel part. To my dad’s chagrin she regularly used some interesting words in her discourse.  

As I described Ebay man, my driver commented laconically “Jasus, what a gobshite” (work it out). I was temporarily transported back to my youth and lost many years (and long trousers)- my mum’s most common epithet. 

 My reverie was somewhat broken though, when the driver also used this emphatic nomenclature to describe every driver on the road who delayed his progress, however legitimately. Anyway, finally delivered at the Westbury hotel in Central Dublin- check in and unpack, and ready to face the delights of Dublin. 

I walked  (more or less) straight out of the front entrance, passing a statue of the great (deceased) Phil Lynott, bass player of Thin Lizzy, a wonderful 70s/80s rock band. We had seen them in concert and he was a master performer who died of excess of just about everything.  (Side note- he lived with the daughter of a TV presenter called Leslie Crowther, who allegedly did not approve of his daughter’s relationship and “living in sin”. Phil , after living with her for many years and fathering some kids formally asked for “her hand in marriage”. Apparently her father’s response was reported as “you might as well- you’ve had all the other bits”). 

I wished him well and walked on. Walking down the street I passed a place furnished in the style of a 1950s American diner. As I passed it the door burst open and out ran a guy pursued by several staff. One lady member of staff appeared to be of Asian extraction and was particularly angry. The fugitive hurled abuse back at which point she picked up a metal chair (café culture and outside tables are alive in Dublin)  and proceeded to attempt to murder this guy. The intended victim suddenly raised a guitar (without a case) to protect himself. The blows rained down and he defended himself with the rear of his guitar. I cannot believe it will ever be in tune again. Was his playing that bad? I found a bar where the staff did not appear too violent (though obviously I wasn’t provoking anyone by carrying an uncased musical instrument). 

 (I subsequently learned that this bar is considered hugely trendy (Tuohy’s Lounge I think it’s called). It seems to have once been the house of someone who was  a complete shambles. The building (with apparently original furnishings) has been left untouched – imagine drinking in the house of your most bohemian cousin and paying a  premium for the beers. I watched my soccer team lose a game where clearly they were doomed by God, and set off to look for a restaurant.  A passable meal in a pizzeria, though I was a little surprised to receive a bill which just had a total, and no addition, which seemed to bear little relation to what I had spent. I politely explained that I would need an itemized bill. The second bill was much lower and included all the items I had ordered, which was an improvement. Despite this “mistake” they still took offence when my tip was not absurdly generous. I walked back to the hotel. A group of (very inebriated) ladies (possibly a hen party) were clustered around Phil’s statue. As I got closer I observed that one, in a state of some undress, was simulating a sexual  act with the statue. I have no idea as to the legal status of such an activity in Dublin (performing a lewd act with a bronze object may or may not be legal), but can’t help but feel that Phil would have somehow not objected.

A quiet night’s sleep ensued.

 

The next day was rainy , and on my walk to St Stephen’s Green I was surprised by the numbers of people trying to give me items. I escaped with only two free newspapers and a  small container of the new “friendly bacteria”  yoghurt. Goodness knows what this was promoting. The Dublin tram network (very limited) is called the “Luas” which I understand is the Irish word for “fast”, rapid”, (you get the idea).  

Today “Luas” could have translated as “disrupted”- a faulty tram had delayed the whole system. The announcer did a fantastic job, as at no time did the anticipated departure exceed 7 minutes from the latest announcement. Eventually after the longest 7 Luas minutes of my life, ( 35 according to my watch, which I assume lives in the normal space -time continuum), we piled onto the next tram. As a result of this test of Einstein’s special theory of relativity, the uninformed mind (i.e. mine) suggested that the number of passengers on board exceeded the laws of physics. Another consequence was that the (obviously illusory) crowding after only 7 waiting minutes meant that we seemed to be packed like sardines in a tin, an illusion which persisted for 70 per cent of the route until people seemed to disembark.. My immediate companions were all female for this journey.  I can honestly say that this was my most intimate contact with the opposite sex (apart from my wife) for 27 years. Indeed when one sneezed on my face, it was some 6 stops before I could move my arm to remove the debris without inviting criminal charges. 

Arrival at Sandyford and a short walk to the office. Relatively uneventful day. In the evening my colleague and I went back to St Stephen’s Green. (Incidentally I was struck by the fact that my ticket was checked every time by inspectors -it’s cheap- but don’t try and ride for free!) Two previously cocky school kids were looking very smug until they were caught. The max one way fare is 2 Euros. 

 A quick beer and then a meal in a very upmarket restaurant.  Ireland has celebrity chefs too, and this restaurant had the standard nouvelle cuisine portions, fussy ingredients, delectable surprises, and snooty staff. Nastiest surprise was when the bill came. The menu clearly said that service was included (in the not inconsiderable prices). . The bill arrived with another line for service and a stupendous suggested “uebertip” (my phrase) 

I refused to add to the already considerable amount.   On the way back we stopped at (allegedly) the smallest pub in Dublin, a subterranean bar with about 25m squared of floor space (15m squared if you take the bar out) .  My walk back to the hotel produced no more lewd acts or (apparently unprovoked) attacks on guitar carriers.  

Next day at the Sandyford office uneventful, until my trip to the airport. Admittedly I set off for the airport at the beginning of the rush hour. As I get older I am more safety conscious. The driver of my cab was  fond of tailgating, and I spent 75 minutes either looking out the side of the car (in denial) or with my eyes closed.

 

Anyway, I got there safely,as evidenced by this post..

The secret French subsidiary

Hello again. Yet another chapter in my odyssey. My next trip took me to
Paris. Flight uneventful. British Midland were willing to sell me bread but in mid afternoon this was less important. Before the flight I had participated in a couple of conference calls. UK company policy is that we do everything via our mobile phones (they claim it’s such a good deal it’s cheaper- I am actually on a call to the US- listening assiduously-as I type this). This means that I have sprouted a motley collection of headsets which accompany me. This was a bit disastrous as most of the calls were cancelled at the last minute. There are few more boring places to spend an unexpected couple of hours than Heathrow Terminal 1. Anyway we boarded and took off on time and duly landed in Charles de Gaulle. Straight off the plane with hand luggage and into a taxi to
Courbevoie. 

My driver was a HUGE African guy who was incredibly impeccable dressed- really smart. Looking at his physique though I would never argue with him.  On the way had a great conversation with my old colleague Trish which helped pass the time- very helpful as the combination of rain, several traffic accidents and a soccer match at the Stade de France turned a 30  minute cab ride into 90. Anyway reached the Hotel Mercure at
Courbevoie. This was a trip down memory lane as I had stayed there once in Unisys days.  

Courbevoie is  a slightly run down suburb close to La Defense, the spectacular modern business sector of
Paris. I unpacked, called home and ventured out into
Courbevoie. On Wednesday evening it’s a sleepy place with a preponderance of Chinese restaurants (actually the Chinese restaurants are there on other days too).  I stopped in a bar and silenced everyone by ordering a large beer. (The French tend to drink beers in glasses of 25cl (about 7 fluid ounces). Ordering a large biere (50cl)  identifies you as probably English (possibly Belgian or German). The clientele kept a close watch on me for several minutes to satisfy themselves that I wasn’t going to sing football songs and tear the bar up. Anyway, closing time at the bar 8.30pm (in
France you drink at home) and I set off in search of a restaurant. I am terribly indecisive in choosing restaurants and food, so spent a  good half hour deciding between the Chinese restaurants. I did walk a little further than Unisys days and also found  Italian and Sicilian restaurants which I will visit in the future, however, being a sentimental chap, I went to the same Chinese where I had eaten all those years ago. I think it has changed hands but what the heck. 

I was greeted by a teenage male who was trying to combine doing his homework with being the waiter- he was lucky I was one of only two customers so we didn’t disturb him much. As I was studying the menu he came with a glass of lychee juice (yuk) and a carafe of water. I ordered some wine and studied the menu.  A few minutes later he came and I ordered. “And what would you like to drink?” he said. I thought I had  misheard so I asked him to repeat. ““And what would you like to drink?”  “I think I have enough liquid” I replied, indicating the 1.5 litres of fluid within easy reach. He blushed profusely and I felt slightly cruel, but we smiled and a bond was formed.  

Anyway I had an incredible meal, though way too much for one person- the food was absurdly cheap and incredibly plentiful. When he came with the bill, he also presented me with a pen in a presentation case. It was obviously a very cheap make, but it was obvious that it was big deal to him to offer me one of these. Told you I was sentimental, but I have it at home as a treasured memento, and it doesn’t even write well. The Mercure at
Courbevoie is in the shape of a doughnut ring, with circular corridors, and rooms that face inward to the courtyard, and others that face outward. Simple mathematics says that the inner rooms will be much smaller than the outer ones- you guessed which sort I drew.  

Uneventful night’s sleep, and next morning had me out at the taxi rank to set off for the office. I told the cab driver where I wanted to go. “WHERE?” he said incredulously. I repeated the address. “It’s over there monsieur” he said, indicating a building 400 metres behind me. I sheepishly got out and walked. Actually I was lucky- some Parisian drivers would have taken me on a scenic tour and deposited me several Euros later without comment.  The European HQ building is spectacular. My colleagues are on the 37^th floor of the Parisian equivalent of the twin towers (Coeur Defense-“Heart of La Defense”). I would never get any work done as the view outside is so incredible.  

It’s funny how people create a hierarchy about anything (guess I did with inner and outer rooms in the earlier paragraph). Anyway in this building the people on the
Eiffel
Tower side consider themselves superior to the nonEiffel
Tower side. I am sure Barry Oshry would have something to say about that. 

For lunch we walked into the precinct of La Defense. The buildings of La Defense are built around an amazing square, rather like in a western movie where the wagons formed a circle when the Indians attacked ( I read somewhere that this circle formation is a movie myth but that’s another topic). Around the buildings runs the most pedestrian hostile ring road designed by mankind anywhere. However inside the square is pedestrianised and truly magnificent. Amazing modern architecture, enormous space. We ate a simple sandwich outside a café in the sunshine and I thought “life is great”. In the afternoon I took a  cab to another office to meet the French HR director. Our online division seems to like swanky offices in prime locations, so this was in the 6^th arondissement (district) and very trendy. I had to wait for the HR Director- he had scheduled 4 meetings simultaneously (he thinks that’s standard practice) so I waited until 7.00 until I saw him.  

A quick ride on the metro to the 5^th arondissement near the Opera and a little bistro. Walking down the street towards the restaurant I passed a small art gallery. (Apparently the 5^th used to have many galleries which moved out- now they are moving back). This gallery was having a launch or showing so the freeloaders (sorry, culture aficionados) were spilling out on the pavement (actually blocking it). Trying to get past I caught an aroma of wine. Even French launch parties have horrible Chardonnay-it smelled like meths. Anyway a great meal- I was amazed that we were able to sit comfortably outside in November without heating. 

The next day I was off to visit the subsidiary. Unlike the online folks, the regular subsidiaries tend to be out of town and inaccessible. The subsidiary is in Les Ulis , a small town outside Paris (Sun folks- you pass Velizy and have to go even further). I expected the cab drivers might be unwilling to take me that far-I’ve had trouble before- but the hotel assured me if I left early I’d be ok. I settled my bill and was out at the cab stand at 7.30.  I gave the driver the address and he didn’t flinch. He had a PDA with Satellite Navigation and punched in the address. “Ca n’existe pas” he said “That doesn’t exist”. Anyway after a short discussion I persuaded him that our $40+bn did exist, and that it was probably a new industrial zone which wasn’t on his map. “It’s your money” he said, and off we went. As we headed over Pont Sevres and down past Velizy, I was cringing looking at the gridlock on the other side of the freeway heading into
Paris, knowing that would be his fate on the way back. After about 30 minutes we arrived in Les Ulis, which is distinguished by an almost complete absence of signage. After a lot of driving around we found the Zone industriel.  

Our buildings could teach the CIA a thing or two. There is no signage to indicate the industrial zone, or the street, buildings are not numbered visibly-you have to get within 20 metres and have eagle eyes to spot that they are our buildings, and they do not appear on maps. Forget Mossad- ifGuantanamo
Bay gets too public- we have Les Ulis. I tipped the driver generously- he had earned his money.  

I met Richard (the HR Director outside (like half the employees he was outside smoking). When I commented on the difficulty finding the place, his response was a laconic “we know where it is…”. I have never seen an office so hard to find- goodness knows how the clients ever find it. In the foyer, people were setting up a giant Scalextric (radio controlled racing car) layout- there was a company championship that day as a morale boosting thing. 

Lengthy drive to Charles de Gaulle airport- typical Friday afternoon gridlock accentuated by accidents.   

Some time before the flight so I went to the “Bar panorama” for a beer. The “Bar Panorama” is the most dilapidated, overpriced bar/restaurant you will find in an airport. Even the staff looked like they have given up. The bar affords a panoramic view- of a flat roof and some ventilation and elevator shafts. Every now and then you catch a glimpse of a plane taxiing, but the overriding impression is of endless grey flat roof. In line with the misleading name, half the menu items are not really available (basically all the hot food isn’t actually available- it’s refrigerated sandwiches or nothing). I couldn’t wait to finish, and board my flight. Next stop
Dublin, and the incident of the FAA approved child seat.

Breadless over Barcelona

After my trip to Seattle I had a few days off and prepared for my next trip, for an EMEA/Latin America HR conference. This took place in a hotel/resort

(“Dolce”) overlooking the town of Setges, a very pretty seaside town close to Barcelona (apparently it’s a kind of Spanish Monte Carlo in terms of the kind of money you need to live there- certainly the real estate prices were stupendous).

The outward trip was not much fun. I flew out around midday on an Iberia flight (I booked late so I had no choice). I have always had bad experiences with Iberia and this was no exception. The flight was full, late, sweaty, etc, etc.

 One feature of Iberia flights is that now you have to pay for anything if you fly economy. I considered the unappetising choices and decided I should get a sandwich as we would not land until 2.30 local time even if we were on time.

When we were airborne they announced that the trolley “service” would start, and the staff wheeled a single trolley right to the front of the plane. I noticed that the lady in the aisle seat on the other side of the corridor, one row in front was reading the joining instructions for the conference, so I introduced myself and suggested we share a taxi from the airport, and settled down to the newspaper. Don’t ask me what happened over the next hour and a bit, but I became aware that I was now hungry, and looked up to see the trolley still 5 rows or so ahead. I checked my watch-

2.15 Spanish time.

Two minutes later, the captain announced “Cabin crew, 10 minutes to landing”, at which point the trolley was immediately whisked away leaving the last 7 rows, quite literally, a sandwich short of a picnic.

Arriving at the airport, we had to wait for my colleague’s bag, and went out to the taxi rank. I asked the guy to take us to the hotel, and he nodded sagely at the address. It seemed my previous adventures with Seattle drivers were just a distant memory. This was dispelled however when we reached the Pay booth at the end of the freeway, and whilst paying the driver asked the lady in the booth “Donde esta el Dolce?”. She said she didn’t have a clue so we drove into Setges, with the driver stopping every couple of minutes to ask for directions. Anyway, to use a metaphor, we had 4 approaches to the airport before we successfully landed.

It’s now 3.30. My colleague Clare had told me that she has problems with low blood sugar and was looking decidedly unwell. We checked in and met in the hotel lobby. The hotel food prices were exorbitant so we ordered a cab back to town, and the concierge recommended a tapas bar. Clare is eating peanuts as a stopgap. We arrive at the tapas place with Clare looking decidedly pale and shaky. The menu was up on a board in badly written Catalan ( I think in the Catalonian version of “Scrabble” the letter “X” must have  a lower score because they use so many), so I just guessed and ordered some stuff.

This could have been a disaster but it turned out to be really great and we had some great food, and a beer or two.

The bar was in a very picturesque example of many narrow alleys, very old and no more than 2 metres wide. Blood sugar restored we walked to the town square, (checking out the house prices), and caught a cab back to the hotel (this guy knew the way but he was a local).

Back to my room. This was quite a job. The hotel is built on top of a hill, and the reception (on one

side) is on the 4th floor. There are two floors on top but on the other side of the hill they have built downhill. My room was on the first floor and a good ten minutes walk from reception, even when you can find the only elevator that serves the lower floors.

The view was wonderful when I finally got there.

The first evening they had a reception on the verandah overlooking the sea. A balmy evening with nice wine..

They also served tapas with this. I didn’t realise that the  same sorts of  tapas would be served at just about every meal for the next two days.

The next day the conference began with a keynote from Fons Trompenaars (he is more or less the Tom Peters of intercultural understanding. He gave a very interesting talk (including much very politically incorrect comment- something to insult everyone). I met a colleague Dick Hoell who left Sun at the same time as I did.

That evening we were taken by coach to a beach which we had hired for a party, including various activities (sailing, archery, beach volleyball, etc, and a barbecue. I was a little suspicious of a small group of folks who seemed to be helping themselves  to beer and wine but were clearly not from our company. They appeared to be known to the bar staff so I guessed it was some kind of fiddle. I was a little surprised later on when they turned out to be the entertainment.

I wouldn’t have juggled with fire if I’d  drunk as much as they had (o.k. I wouldn’t do it at all under any circumstances).

Last day I attended a team meeting (my boss’s team).

One of the hard things to get used to in this company’s culture is that it is SO email mad. All of the  other folks had laptops in front of them and dipped in and out of email as the meeting progressed.

I felt very exposed as I was the only person without this barrier to protect me from eye contact with the others.  Having everyone doing email makes for interesting meetings. People get engrossed in typing, and tune out of entire sections of discussion. Then 20 minutes later they will reintroduce a point that was debated to death 20 minutes previously, and you can start all over again. Wonderful sport.

The trip back to Barcelona airport was  a little fraught. One thing our conference organisers had not considered was that on the return trip we would be relying on the Setges taxi fleet. Apparently there are only 14 taxis in the entire town and with a return journey of 75 minutes this is not a very efficient way of transporting 300 people to the airport. We were hence touch and go for the plane when our cab finally arrived to take us.

 I was a little surprised on the trip in to see that on the freeway into Barcelona there are ladies, apparently operating as prostitutes, standing openly on the hard shoulder at the side of the road  in broad daylight (I didn’t buy my colleague’s suggestion that they were very scantily clad hitchhikers. Hitchhikers in their underwear without luggage?).

 Anyway our fears of missing the plane were unfounded- due to bad weather there were extensive delays. No chance of a sandwich or drink on the flight back either – British Airways caterers still out of action after a 3 month strike. So much for the world’s favourite airline- but it had a certain symmetry to be breadless in both directions.

Next stop Paris and the top secret French subsidiary.

Sleepless near Seattle

It’s been a long time since I sent one of these
(“Hurrah” I hear from some- I will not elaborate on
what I hear from others). One of my cogitations after
the excitement of the last few months has been that I
should return to sending these travelogues. Feel free
to opt out if not interested.I started my new job on Monday 19th September. My
boss was especially keen that I started then , as
there was a big meeting in Seattle that week , and it
was a great opportunity to meet a whole bunch of
colleagues, so I agreed to start with the proviso that
I would have this week (26th September) as unpaid
vacation. One black cloud over last week was my
concern that I might not have a replacement passport
in time to travel.(On my return from holiday in France at the beginning
of September I indulged in one of my bad habits of
leaving items in the breast pocket of my shirt. Major
learning from this- British passports are not very
machine washable. I have no data as to whether those
issued from other countries are more durable).Anyway after much negotiation I managed to arrange to
collect it from the Peterborough passport office, and
on Weds I flew Heathrow-Boston-Seattle.I arrived in the evening and jumped into a cab from
Seattle airport and took a cab to Bellevue, a suburb
close to Seattle and also close to Redmond.  (This
trip was uneventful- we went straight there- I didn’t
at the time appreciate how  unusual this would be).

I had a quick meal and went to bed.

I awoke at 2am to the sound of thumping, An office was
being refurbished across the road, and the road was
being resurfaced overnight. I’ve had occasions when
thoughtless builders have begun work at unsociable
times with neighbours’ projects, but never 500 of them
building a skyscraper throughout the night. I drifted
off to sleep with dreams which featured piledrivers……

On Thursday morning I met some of my new team in the
foyer, and we took a cab to Redmond. The meeting felt
like a step back in time. We had a whole range of team
building exercises, including (for those of you who
remember),  a rip-off of the team game “Gold of the
Desert Kings”. As the author of “Barracuda Bounty” I
was of course shocked that anyone would produce such a
blatant copy of a copyrighted game.

A tip if you ever play the game, now called “Legend of
the Lost Dutchman’s Mine”. If you stay and get the
video information ( equivalent to the old man in
“Gold” or Sailing Tips in “Barracuda”, nowadays ALL
the information is useful- there is no infuriating
spurious data. Pathetic.

Evening, multiple drinks and  dinner with new team-
almost drowned out the construction team.

Friday was interesting. I had expected a two day
meeting, but instead we were due to go to the company 30
year anniversary/ kickoff.

We were bused to the Seattle baseball stadium with
18000 other employees. The pitch had a huge stage erected, and we were
entertained by 6 hours of presentations of upcoming
products. Some of this was breathtaking, some very
geeky, my overall impression was that a baseball
stadium in that climate is too cold a place to sit
people for six hours, even if it has a roof, unless
all are megageeks.

The day also included a rock band and the company version of “Stars in their Eyes” with fellow employees doing their party pieces with with full band backing.

The band were tremendous – not all the singers were

Meeting ended with the CEO’s speech. He’s very keen on “Eye of the Tiger”. The chords rang out and he came on stage (eventually), then leapt off it
to dance around the front of the auditorium doing high
fives with the dancing employees. He came back and
gave a great speech, much stronger on analysis than Mr
McNealy (in my opinion)..

After the meeting was the product fair, the stands
being behind the stage on the other half of the
baseball field. I busied myself with sitting in the
stands and availing myself of some of the free beer.
The fair was somewhat constricted by the huge jams of
people around the T-shirt tent, as T shirts were
thrown out to the audience. I figured it was safer to
have another beer in the stands with all that crush.
When I decided it was safe to go down  (I was very
cautious) I acquired all the product info and enough T
shirts to clothe a clan, as there were enough provided
to do product placement in the entire population of a
small city.

And so to my hotel. I had established that the cab
journey from Seattle to Bellevue was no different than
from Redmond to Bellevue, so and figured I would go
directly from the stadium asked a steward where to
walk to hail a cab. I followed his instructions and
sure enough two minutes later flagged down a big
yellow cab. I got in and asked the driver to take me
to the Hyatt in Bellevue. “Where’s that?” he asked.
“In Bellevue” I said,” I thought you would know your
way around Seattle”, (Later I learned how naïve this
statement was). “No” he said, “ I only arrived from
Ethiopia last week”. At 5pm on a Friday in downtown we
weren’t going very far very fast, and he began a
jabbered conversation on his cellphone,  he said we
was speaking Amharic. We drove around for 30 minutes
with him repeatedly asking me if I recognised the
area. I immediately said “no”, as simple observation
showed that whereas Bellevue is full of high rise
blocks, the areas we were driving in had no buildings
over 3 storeys high. More frantic calls, in another
language (he told me it was Swahili, but I doubt this,
as Swahili is more common in Kenya, etc.). Anyway, the
language change didn’t work, and  after an hour I
pointed out that we had made no progress (I can spot a
baseball stadium from 400 yards away).

I said that I wasn’t prepared to pay the meter, but
out of sympathy offered him a tip as he was new to the
country and on the lowest rung. He refused to accept,
going on about how he had failed me, for a moment I
thought he was going to commit ritual suicide, and I
didn’t really have time for this as the beer drunk so
long ago was now processed and I had urgent need of a
rest room.

Anyway, dashed into a bar and had a beer whilst they
ordered me another taxi. In the meantime I heard my
three neighbours debating their syndicate purchases in
a bewildering array of state lotteries. After a
agreeing an order that would challenge most memory
experts, one of their number went off and soon
returned with a sheaf of tickets. These people were in
scratch card heaven for a few minutes, though I would
estimate that their meagre winnings may have been 20%
of their stake.

Anyway my cab arrived as they were debating how to
lose more money very quickly. My new cab driver (of
Indian origin) made no reaction when I asked to go to
Bellevue, but he was immediately on the phone, and I
thought I heard him say “Bellevue”. Anyway, whoever he
called must have known how to read a map, as I got
home without incident. Dinner at a steak house, where
the mixed grill consisted of entire animals- I have
never seen so much meat. Back to the hotel to discover
that the construction boys work Friday (all) nights
too.

Saturday morning a little strange. Although in the US
people tend to get up early on weekdays, Saturday is
definitely a slow start. Most places don’t seem to
open until 10 at the earliest. I was fed up with the
hotel breakfast, so went out at 9 in search of
somewhere else to eat. A fruitless hour ensued in
which I established that no-one serves breakfast
within half a mile of the hotel in any direction. No
shops were open, nowhere to go. A passing patrol car
stopped and asked me what I was doing- clearly walking
is tantamount to vagrancy, but my English accent
produced knowing smiles (perceived British
eccentricity perhaps). Anyway by 10 o’ clock the only
place I found was a Wendy’s so returned defeated to
the hotel.

Taken to the airport by a Russian called Ivan (what
else?). He works for a limo company and gave a
diatribe on local cab drivers that could  have been
the kind of monologue you get from London cabbies
talking about minicab drivers.

Flight back largely uneventful.

Anyway, that’s enough for now. I’ll bore you about
Barcelona next.