Taxi Spanish

My daydream in the cab was broken by the driver asking me, "Are you German?".  I quickly tossed up what would end this conversation sooner, me being German or something else.  

I went with, "Spanish".  

Silence reigned again and I went back to my daydreaming.  

Then, out of the blue, I hear,

"Ta ta di que so."

"Sorry?" I Say

"Ta ta de que so.  Si.  Cheescake."

"Cheesecake?  Oh, tarta de queso.  Yes, that's cheescake."  I sink back into wondering why he can say cheesecake, of all things, but my thoughts are interrupted again with,

"Piscina pubico."

"Publica, yes. With an L."

"Ah publica.  yes."

He then pointed to the left, "Comisaria de policia."

The collection of schoolboy words in Spanish is a little baffling, I must say.  

I lean over to see he has a pile of flash cards next to him, some in Spanish, some in Italian and a glimpse of "klein nudeln" reveals the enthusiasm for German earlier. 

Other useful words are listed like "stamp collection" and "spread germs" 

He then asks, "How do you say IFC in Spanish?"

I said that there were two ways, the long way and the short way.  The long way was requested:

"Centro Internacional Financiero"

He wrote this on his newspaper as we sped down the highway at full throttle.  

The Spanish list

After asking him a number of words I've been wanting to learn in Cantonese (traffic jam, I'm late, up to you and birthday cake (to go with cheesecake)), we had sadly arrived.

He shouted Ciao! out the window and was gone.  

Casual Fridays

If the average 40 year old Japanese banker wears khaki trousers, a button down shirt and boring shoes on a Saturday when going for lunch with his wife, then why does he wear a Nike cap, Nike Airs, white shorts and a Lycra t-shirt on "casual Fridays" at the bank?

This is the question I asked myself ten minutes ago when I got a call from T at Le Banque in Tokyo.  Turns out the electricity hasn't quite come back since last year's earthquake - don't ask -  and so they're saving-on-a/c.

Due to it being, well, the middle of summer, the CEO sensibly suggested that employees might "dress casually and not wear a suit or tie" to avoid total meltdown.  

Clearly, this was interpreted as "dress for Sports Day" or alternatively, "please all go home, dig around in the rag basket, hassle your 10 year old son for his hand-me-downs and throw it all on.  In the dark."

I suppose it was that or the French alternative which would have been to shut down the entire Japanese division.  That would be a far-better-way-to-save-on-a/c. Non?

Mute

I was recently told about a conference call with half the universe on it, in a huge multinational, across four different time zones.  And in the middle of this call, everyone could suddenly hear the soothing tinkle tinkle of water, and the echo of what could only be the four walls of a bathroom.  It took everyone on the line about 5 seconds to register what it was and for the presenter to irritably say,

"Can we all go on mute, please?!"

And then I remembered a similar call where we were also talking across three million time zones, with twenty zillion heavyweights on the call and we could suddenly hear a dog barking and someone scream at the top of their lungs,

"Shutup!!!!"

Again, a restrained request for the mute button to be used was made.

If you think about it, entire careers can be derailed because of not pressing the mute button. Even worse than not remembering to press the mute button is accidentally unmuting yourself with your cheek while squeezing it against the keypad. 

Fatal. 

Pick a name

As more and more of our friends have babies, I notice that my heart skips a beat every time I mention their little offspring.   

I'm terrified I've got the baby's name wrong.

I'm not usually bad with names, but this onslaught of new arrivals is a bit much for my tiny tiny brain, and not good for my nerves either. 

Feel the fear and do it anyway

So I finally decided it was time to start hiking in Hong Kong.  I was tempted to write 'serious hiking', but I don't want to get ahead of myself.  

Over the past two years, I've been procrastinating rather badly, choosing from a list of well used excuses: 

- You know I get blisters
- It's raining
- It looks like it might rain
- You're too fast for me
- What if we go for lunch instead

Anyway, not wanting to look like I wasn't trying hard enough, I decided to take on a somewhat tougher than average hike in Lantao (stages 1 and 2).  The trail takes you up to Sunset peak and then back down again.  I also decided to take on this hike on my own (refer to excuse #4 above).  However, little did I know that I would really be alone, as in A-LONE, and that the hike would be a serious bum buster with endless stairs going up and then the same amount winding all the way down.  

Endless stairs of hell

As only the daughter of paranoid South African parents could feel, I spent about half the hike imagining I was in the Hunger Games and waiting to get shot/stabbed or kidnapped. 

View somewhere after the top

Sighting of small huts on the hill ..somewhat foreboding

 Forging on despite ominous clouds 

Now that I'm feeling more "can" about hiking than "can't" I might even venture out for more next week.   

For those of you who want to know the details, here is a link to an overview.  This should be helpful for those of you who, like me, are navigationally challenged.

French style

What is it with French women and their innate sense of style? 

As I sat next to this girl the other night, I mentioned that I didn't wear polo shirts as they look strange on me.  She asked me where I had tried them on and I told her that I'd only ever tried them at Ralph Lauren.  

She took a sip of her wine and said, "Well, that's the problem.  Ralph Lauren polo shirts are too short.  They're cut too wide.  And the v at the front doesn't go low enough.  That's why they make you look strange.  You should go to H&M.  They have a longer cut, lower V and a slimmer fit.  They're perfect."

That would have taken me about a million years to figure out.  Or never.  

Boys

Last of the summer wine

I sat there expectantly.  The only woman among four men in blue suits and socks sitting in my living room chatting excitedly over mountains of wine, cheese and crackers.  I had thought I would be bored.  Imagining myself having to listen to the ups and downs of the market and whether Hollande really is as bad as he seems to be.  

I was wrong.  The topic that commanded most debate and discussion was actually fridges.  Should fridges have two doors, ice makers, be big enough to sleep in?  Most importantly should they be Miele (No, you pronounce it "Miule".  No! Mielee..) or liebherr. 

Then they all gleefully bundled into the kitchen to make steaks over the stovetop grill (yes, Le Creuset is definitely better than Ikea, says one.  But it's not quite clear if it beats Tefal, says another).

And later.  As as they sat there recovering, blissfully nursing their wine, polishing off the ice-cream and always making sure I was well topped up, sitting comfortably and wanted of nothing.  As I sat there I thought. For the first time in my life.  When we have kids, I wouldn't say no to boys. 

What's the point?

Much to T's despair, I'm a Lady Gaga fan. I wouldn't go as far to say I'm a "Little Monster" but when I received the "exclusive priority booking invitation to all American Express holders" to buy advanced tickets to her Hong Kong concert, I couldn't resist.

But here's the problem. What's the point of sending out an "exclusive priority booking invitation to all American Express holders" if you're not going to prepare your call centre and website for the hoards of American Express holders who are clambering on top of one another to get their tickets??

I mean, why bother if all Amex has achieved through their "exclusive invitation" is to seriously p** me off. How many times can I refresh their overloaded website? How many times can I call their busy call centre? If you want to lose a customer, here's how to do it: over promise. under deliver.

Thanks, Amex.

One very annoyed customer.

Broody? Who?

As I sat on the plane from Paris back to Hong Kong, I was feeling unusually broody. After two weeks in London, Paris and Val D'isere with various friends and family and all their angelic children, I was starting to warm to the idea of creating my own little saintly darlings.

My friends in London seem to have all produced babies that don't cry and children that say please and thank you before you've even given them anything. My new French siblings in-law have managed to perform a similar miracle which I witnessed when all 9 of their offspring between the ages of 3 and 9, were left to silently draw and play throughout our entire Christmas lunch and post perennial drinking. We then went skiing with more siblings-in laws and their various French friends who, despite having 3 kids each, seemed to live their lives quite independently of them, thanks to ski school and firm discipline.

So, given this rather encouraging generation of children (and parents?), who wouldn't think that having one's own might be a good idea? But then it only takes the two little buggers and their role model of a mother behind you on the British Airways plane to Heathrow to remind you that maybe we don't need to be in such a hurry afterall...

Liam: "Maaaaaaaaaaaammm, look, look, we're going doooooooooooooowwwwwwn. Look mum, there's a fire on the wing. look. look. look."
Note increasing panic in the cabin.
Mum: "Stop it, Liam."
Liam: "But look, the buses are getting bigga and evryfink. Oh look, look!"
Liam kicks the back of my seat enthusiastically.
Rosie: "Pull on the red strap if there's an emergency. Mum, should we pull on vis?"
Mum: "Ssshhh, Rosie."
Liam: "Pull on the red strap if you hate your sister!"
Rosie: "Pull on the red strap if you hate your bother! Yaaaayyyy!!!!"
Mum: "Rosie, I've had enuf. You've been at it the whole flight. I've had it and so has everyone else"

Well, that's one way to successfully quell any maternal instincts.

This post was written on the Cathay Pacific lounge computer in Heathrow while munching on "English Cheddar and Red Onion Crisps". Font might be off as well as everything else.

Grazes, fate and a little fashion

As I flew through the air about to land on my face on Bowen road in the dark, all I could think about (other than how to land without smashing my engagement ring in half) was how I was going to piece myself together before a 20 hour flight to Washington.

As I shakily stood up and felt a surge of nausea at the site of gravel-blood curdle all over my body, I couldn't have felt much more sorry for myself, and held back tears as I noted that T had just gone to Boracay to kite surf and my parents who had been visiting had also just left.

Of course, the tears came as soon as the cab driver asked me if I was ok. He passed me tissues (taking his eye completely off the road as he pressed the accelerator) and told me everything would be fine, especially as I obviously was already fine given I could afford to live on Caine road. Interesting logic there.

I dragged myself up home, feeling increasingly sorry for myself, and wondering how on earth I was going to pull myself together. All on my own. This was the first time I wished the doorman was there, so I could give him a full tour of my grazes and an opinion on what to do next.

The lift door opened and there she was. Mum. Enormous sunglasses and panama hat on at 9pm, waiting at the door. Her travel agent had gotten the days mixed up for her flight home. So there she stood; comfort, love, hospital (and a little fashion) all in one. It's in moments like these that you wonder if there is, in fact, a Master Plan.

Picking a side

So we watched the rugby today. And we won. We being France. Tomorrow I hope we win again. We being South Africa. Pity Spain isn't playing.

Quintessentially annoying

As I sat on the plane to Tokyo, I was feeling rather chuffed at having pulled my nose up at the thought of reading Vogue and Marie Claire and having decided to exercise my braincells with the FT Weekend. But now I find I'm regretting that decision.

If I read one more article on the wonders of Quintessentially concierge services for the uber rich and uber unimaginative, I just might throw up. Somewhere in the business section was a whole piece on this magnificant business that stores and transports your clothes around the world depending on where you are. They'll also store and organise your Hermes bag collection in chronological order. I mean, seriously, how old do you have to be to have enough Hermes bags and, over enough time, that they need to be chronologised?

So now, as I slap the paper down, exasperated at yet another article where the journalist is "quite exhausted" from so many gallery openings and has "just had to" slip into a spa for four days, (as she's on the "brink of burnout" from "high octane socialising") to get her chakras aligned before continuing, I'm wondering if I should hassle the air hostess for a People magazine.

I must say, that in the midst of all this waffle, I found the interview with the prize-winning novelist, Magnus Mills to be rather refreshing.

FT Question: When do you feel most free?

Magnus Mills: When I'm walking home from the swimming pool

That's better.