I was just skyping Jimmy when all of the stray dogs outside started going crazy. Then there was a big crash, I think some of the building opposite collapsed. No big story, it was derelict. So i thought maybe another earthquake was on its way. I was in one two weeks ago, but aside from my plant wobbling I didn't really notice it. And as most things in my world wobble at some point or other it really wasn't a cause for concern at the time.
However, after the 1999 earthquakes here that cause about 50,000 deaths, they did say another one was due within 10 years. Luckily my house is built on rock, but they do say the rest of istanbul will probably collapse if it happens. My Turkish teacher told me that some people are actually looking forward to it because it will 'clean out the riff raff' from the poorer parts of town and open the doors to new developments. The situation in Turkey is that the east of the country mostly lives in poverty. So in the last 20 years Istanbul has seen it's size grow from just a couple of million to 20 million. Around 20 years ago Istanbulus wanted to introduce permits and visas to stop the poor people coming into their city.
I have seen tented communities here by the side of industrial towns. They make Roma gypsies look like the elite classes.
Anyway. I am experiencing a little minor disaster right now. My water has been out since I got home, Who knows how long for although I suspect there may be no shower tomorrow and the bottle of wine I bought has gone bad. Think I'll just go to bed,,,, or I would if the frigging dogs would stop barking.
Wednesday 26 March 2008
Monday 24 March 2008
small worlds and big men
It’s a small world. But some people are take up more room in it than others. For example, a guy I used to hang out with called Matt Skelton. 6ft5 of prime heavyweight championship Thai boxer who has since gone into Queensbury rules (normal boxing) and was set to fight, amongst others, Audley Harrison. (yes I know you will google him you nosey sods). Because we even went on a date or two, but in the third round I rang the bell. Nice enough chap though, although he did break an unnerving amount of furniture just by sitting on it.
I remember the first time I met him I’d started a new Thai boxing gym. My initiation (because I had come from rival gym) consisted of me standing in the ring and getting the crap kicked out of me by a variety of professional fighters, just to see if I’d fold. I didn’t. And the last guy on their list to try and freak me out was Matt. I weighed six and a half stone (41 kg), he weighed 19. So I ran at him with all my might and tried to grab his neck and get him into a grapple, then sort of hung there like a fairy necklace for several minutes before he said to our trainer: ‘Nigel…. Get her out the ring, I can’t do it mate.’ Praise the Lord for that. And thus a friendship was born.
Well now it seems that he is coming to fight in Istanbul and I have been asked by my old newspaper to cover the match. Unfortunately it coincides with the time my mum is here so I’m not sure I can. But it would have been priceless to see the look on his face when I sauntered up with a notepad.
I’ve been thinking a lot about old boyfriends. Actually mostly I have just been doing memory exercises, and since I have probably had more failed relationships than there are Turkish verbs and it seemed like the bigger challenge to try and remember them all.
In amongst my repotoire I can count:
The one who fathered a child while we were dating but hoped that my maths would be so bad I wouldn’t be able to count back for 9 months. (he nearly got away with it too)
The one who turned gay
The psycho
The stalker
The desperate to get married guy (no matter to whom)
The serial cheat (actually that category covers some of the above)
The crushing bore
And the one that got away whilst I was too drunk to notice.
It all sounds rather hopeless, until you count the number of years I have actually been single because of the number of eejits I have actually turned down. Then you realise that I actually got off lightly – I could have just met the one and stayed with him! Instead I have managed to weave all of the rejected threads into the rich tapestry you see today (errrr.....).
Married men are the worst. It always annoys me when the press, and society alike, paint a terrible picture of ‘the other woman’. Like she deliberatly set out to wreck a home, and poor defenceless hubbie was so wooed by the evil bint, that he lost leave of all his senses. In nearly all cases when you finally find out a man is married, he claims it is the first time he has ever done it…. And inevitably you always meet a random girl in a pub afterwards who thought she was his only affair too.
Double standards never cease to amaze me. I sort of find myself quite often agreeing with uber-femministic Germaine Greer columns in the Guardian, which is sort of scary. It may not be long before I start burning my bras and insulting chaps who hold doors open for me.
Why am I rambling on anyway? Well its that time of year when yet another round of friends is orf getting hitched. Many more are breeding and spawning. Rutting season. And I’ve been looking around at Turkish men who are very cute, but having spoken to many expat women, I have realised may just not be culturally compatible. Or maybe its because expat women are a certain breed. We are usually fiercely independent, have seen enough crap to have a clear idea of what we can and can’t tolerate, and usually (having lived independantly for so long) find it absolutely impossible to deal with a man who leaves used tea bags in the sink and doesn’t shut the fridge door properly.
This does not go down well with the male species who generally like to feel at least a little bit needed. But after being told by a former Serbian special forces soldier once that I was ‘too cold and independent’ (wtf!?) I have been experimenting with my feminine side. Sometimes I pretend that I can’t open bottles or assemble Ikea furniture, and by crikey it seems to work! Men’s chests go all puffy when you ask them to do stuff. Who knew? The goddamn times I have put my back out lugging furniture and suitcases up 6 flights of stairs by myself because I didn't think any guy would really want to help me.
The other thing I noticed last week, after a couple of guys from my department started using the office gym, is that they were not overly impressed that I was lifting heavier weights than them – especially now that I only weigh 50kg. In fact I understood (unbeknownst to them) that they were actually giving a rather incredulous commentary on how fast I was running on the machine to the rest of the gym. I may well be a source of embaressment in a male dominated environment. Which pisses me off because I even try to wear lipstick sometimes these days (although to be honest it usually ends up on my chin and my teeth which is a grisly sight to behold).
I try not to tell guys that I am a boxer or that I can probably lift heavier weights than them. I have even tried holding children in public without shaking or dropping them (well it worked for Tony Blair). Strangely kids seem to like me (either that or they are intelligent enough to spot a fake and are pissing themselves laughing).
And so I can conclude that being a strong woman and managing to be attractive only works if you are Angelina Jolie, who stole Brad Pitt from that chick in the frightfully twee American sitcom ‘Friends’. Hussy. It also got me thinking that the only guys who are not scared of me, tend to be British. So as much as it pains me, there may well be a time I have to return to that soggy, miserable, expensive island. On the bright side, with British lasses being more on the portly side, I wouldn’t have to worry about going to the gym and staying in shape any more. Although being fit enough to outrun them when I find out I've been unwittingly dating their lying scumbag of a husband might be a wise idea.
By the way, if any of you are reading this, do feel free to comment. Seems awfully quiet on this side of Venus.
I remember the first time I met him I’d started a new Thai boxing gym. My initiation (because I had come from rival gym) consisted of me standing in the ring and getting the crap kicked out of me by a variety of professional fighters, just to see if I’d fold. I didn’t. And the last guy on their list to try and freak me out was Matt. I weighed six and a half stone (41 kg), he weighed 19. So I ran at him with all my might and tried to grab his neck and get him into a grapple, then sort of hung there like a fairy necklace for several minutes before he said to our trainer: ‘Nigel…. Get her out the ring, I can’t do it mate.’ Praise the Lord for that. And thus a friendship was born.
Well now it seems that he is coming to fight in Istanbul and I have been asked by my old newspaper to cover the match. Unfortunately it coincides with the time my mum is here so I’m not sure I can. But it would have been priceless to see the look on his face when I sauntered up with a notepad.
I’ve been thinking a lot about old boyfriends. Actually mostly I have just been doing memory exercises, and since I have probably had more failed relationships than there are Turkish verbs and it seemed like the bigger challenge to try and remember them all.
In amongst my repotoire I can count:
The one who fathered a child while we were dating but hoped that my maths would be so bad I wouldn’t be able to count back for 9 months. (he nearly got away with it too)
The one who turned gay
The psycho
The stalker
The desperate to get married guy (no matter to whom)
The serial cheat (actually that category covers some of the above)
The crushing bore
And the one that got away whilst I was too drunk to notice.
It all sounds rather hopeless, until you count the number of years I have actually been single because of the number of eejits I have actually turned down. Then you realise that I actually got off lightly – I could have just met the one and stayed with him! Instead I have managed to weave all of the rejected threads into the rich tapestry you see today (errrr.....).
Married men are the worst. It always annoys me when the press, and society alike, paint a terrible picture of ‘the other woman’. Like she deliberatly set out to wreck a home, and poor defenceless hubbie was so wooed by the evil bint, that he lost leave of all his senses. In nearly all cases when you finally find out a man is married, he claims it is the first time he has ever done it…. And inevitably you always meet a random girl in a pub afterwards who thought she was his only affair too.
Double standards never cease to amaze me. I sort of find myself quite often agreeing with uber-femministic Germaine Greer columns in the Guardian, which is sort of scary. It may not be long before I start burning my bras and insulting chaps who hold doors open for me.
Why am I rambling on anyway? Well its that time of year when yet another round of friends is orf getting hitched. Many more are breeding and spawning. Rutting season. And I’ve been looking around at Turkish men who are very cute, but having spoken to many expat women, I have realised may just not be culturally compatible. Or maybe its because expat women are a certain breed. We are usually fiercely independent, have seen enough crap to have a clear idea of what we can and can’t tolerate, and usually (having lived independantly for so long) find it absolutely impossible to deal with a man who leaves used tea bags in the sink and doesn’t shut the fridge door properly.
This does not go down well with the male species who generally like to feel at least a little bit needed. But after being told by a former Serbian special forces soldier once that I was ‘too cold and independent’ (wtf!?) I have been experimenting with my feminine side. Sometimes I pretend that I can’t open bottles or assemble Ikea furniture, and by crikey it seems to work! Men’s chests go all puffy when you ask them to do stuff. Who knew? The goddamn times I have put my back out lugging furniture and suitcases up 6 flights of stairs by myself because I didn't think any guy would really want to help me.
The other thing I noticed last week, after a couple of guys from my department started using the office gym, is that they were not overly impressed that I was lifting heavier weights than them – especially now that I only weigh 50kg. In fact I understood (unbeknownst to them) that they were actually giving a rather incredulous commentary on how fast I was running on the machine to the rest of the gym. I may well be a source of embaressment in a male dominated environment. Which pisses me off because I even try to wear lipstick sometimes these days (although to be honest it usually ends up on my chin and my teeth which is a grisly sight to behold).
I try not to tell guys that I am a boxer or that I can probably lift heavier weights than them. I have even tried holding children in public without shaking or dropping them (well it worked for Tony Blair). Strangely kids seem to like me (either that or they are intelligent enough to spot a fake and are pissing themselves laughing).
And so I can conclude that being a strong woman and managing to be attractive only works if you are Angelina Jolie, who stole Brad Pitt from that chick in the frightfully twee American sitcom ‘Friends’. Hussy. It also got me thinking that the only guys who are not scared of me, tend to be British. So as much as it pains me, there may well be a time I have to return to that soggy, miserable, expensive island. On the bright side, with British lasses being more on the portly side, I wouldn’t have to worry about going to the gym and staying in shape any more. Although being fit enough to outrun them when I find out I've been unwittingly dating their lying scumbag of a husband might be a wise idea.
By the way, if any of you are reading this, do feel free to comment. Seems awfully quiet on this side of Venus.
Thursday 20 March 2008
The taming of the shoes
I remember when I was a tween I coveted a book called ‘sex tips for girls’ by a female New York jounalist called Cynthia Himel. She trotted around the big apple wearing fantastic leather ensembles with high heels and back combed hair (well it was the 80’s) having all manner of experiences with men and relating them in her weekly columns
.
Yes ladies it’s true. Carrie Bradshaw is a weak and fictional copy. This chick was the real deal.
There are many things she wrote that stuck in my mind forever. One great piece of advice was: never wear white tights, EVER. The other was that when a woman wears red shoes something magical happens. So after hankering for a pair of red heels for at least a year, I finally found a pair that I was likely to be able to walk in over Istanbul terrain.
I wore them for the first time today. The first sign that dear Cynthia might be right was when I got out of the taxi and walked to the office. My shoes attracted many a beep from passing motorists. In fact one guy was so busy looking at my shoes he slammed straight into the van in front of him. I kid you not. My shoes caused a pile up on the highway.
In fact the woman at work just laughed at me because she caught me admiring them. Again.
Anyway, in to work I skipped, full of the joys of spring confident in the fact that at the grand old age of 31, I can still stop traffic, well of a fashion.
But apparently the magical effect of my shoes only works within a mile radius of the store where I bought them. Yesterday I paid over the odds, while at the shopping mall, to have some particularly nasty passport photos taken. Like a dumb ass I left them at home this morning and I needed them for work permit purposes.
So rather than waste money on a taxi I decided once again to try the bus to get home at lunch time and pick them up. However there is a magic word which I only just figured out today that they write on the front of buses. I can't pronounce it but it means that wherever you thought you might be going – you are most definitely not. I think its something to do with the evil eye. To cut a long story short, and not for not the first time in Istanbul, I found myself being driven through the Turkish wilderness and ceremoniously dumped at the end of the line (well I presume that's what it was as there were no markings) on the top of a hill so steep that I knew that my shoes would not take me back to civilisation, which was miles away.
A little Turkish boy who got off at the same stop as me was tugging my sleeve with some urgency. I know not why. Then he looked at me sadly and disappeared off into the bush.
So there I was on a windy rain lashed hill. I could tell that I was somewhere near the Black Sea beacause I could see the ships entering the Bospherous. I tried clicking my shoes and saying ‘there’s no place like home’ but it didn’t work. So I tried to walk. When I realised it was futile unless I wanted bunions so I gave up – figuring that a bus would have to come back at some point. Which after a good dose of hypothermia and several nervous cigarettes, it did. Everyone we picked up on the way to our next bit of wilderness wore headscarves. They stared at my shoes, and not in a ‘wonder where she got them’ kind of way. It's amazing how RED shoes can look when everyone else is wearing muted shades of black and grey. Some whispered. My red shoes were beginning to make me feel like a scarlet woman. Which is why when I saw a taxi I started screaming at the bus driver to let me off and was half considering using the emergency hammer to smash the window and escape.
Got back to work 3 hours after I set off. It ahould have been a 20 minute round trip.
Last weekend I went island hoping on the group of islands around istanbul. This weekend more snowboarding!
.
Yes ladies it’s true. Carrie Bradshaw is a weak and fictional copy. This chick was the real deal.
There are many things she wrote that stuck in my mind forever. One great piece of advice was: never wear white tights, EVER. The other was that when a woman wears red shoes something magical happens. So after hankering for a pair of red heels for at least a year, I finally found a pair that I was likely to be able to walk in over Istanbul terrain.
I wore them for the first time today. The first sign that dear Cynthia might be right was when I got out of the taxi and walked to the office. My shoes attracted many a beep from passing motorists. In fact one guy was so busy looking at my shoes he slammed straight into the van in front of him. I kid you not. My shoes caused a pile up on the highway.
In fact the woman at work just laughed at me because she caught me admiring them. Again.
Anyway, in to work I skipped, full of the joys of spring confident in the fact that at the grand old age of 31, I can still stop traffic, well of a fashion.
But apparently the magical effect of my shoes only works within a mile radius of the store where I bought them. Yesterday I paid over the odds, while at the shopping mall, to have some particularly nasty passport photos taken. Like a dumb ass I left them at home this morning and I needed them for work permit purposes.
So rather than waste money on a taxi I decided once again to try the bus to get home at lunch time and pick them up. However there is a magic word which I only just figured out today that they write on the front of buses. I can't pronounce it but it means that wherever you thought you might be going – you are most definitely not. I think its something to do with the evil eye. To cut a long story short, and not for not the first time in Istanbul, I found myself being driven through the Turkish wilderness and ceremoniously dumped at the end of the line (well I presume that's what it was as there were no markings) on the top of a hill so steep that I knew that my shoes would not take me back to civilisation, which was miles away.
A little Turkish boy who got off at the same stop as me was tugging my sleeve with some urgency. I know not why. Then he looked at me sadly and disappeared off into the bush.
So there I was on a windy rain lashed hill. I could tell that I was somewhere near the Black Sea beacause I could see the ships entering the Bospherous. I tried clicking my shoes and saying ‘there’s no place like home’ but it didn’t work. So I tried to walk. When I realised it was futile unless I wanted bunions so I gave up – figuring that a bus would have to come back at some point. Which after a good dose of hypothermia and several nervous cigarettes, it did. Everyone we picked up on the way to our next bit of wilderness wore headscarves. They stared at my shoes, and not in a ‘wonder where she got them’ kind of way. It's amazing how RED shoes can look when everyone else is wearing muted shades of black and grey. Some whispered. My red shoes were beginning to make me feel like a scarlet woman. Which is why when I saw a taxi I started screaming at the bus driver to let me off and was half considering using the emergency hammer to smash the window and escape.
Got back to work 3 hours after I set off. It ahould have been a 20 minute round trip.
Last weekend I went island hoping on the group of islands around istanbul. This weekend more snowboarding!
Monday 17 March 2008
An old blog from last Friday
As sods law dictates, the very second I am legally employed by an umbrella
company and start getting paid, my Turkish work permit comes through. So
all that work, photocopying, making international phones calls, running
around, scanning, DHLing, meeting tax advisors, arguing with HR,
researching contracts and other nonsense enabled me to be legal for
precisely one week more than if I’d have just sat on my ass and done
nothing. Brilliant.
Today I am nursing a slight hangover. A rare occurrence for the all new
moi. I went to dinner last night with a Dutch corporate lawyer and three
bottles of sauvignon later we were putting the world to rights. That was
about when my colleague walked into the restaurant whose name,
embarrassingly, I could not remember. I also realized that I had forgotten
the name of my dinner companion. It was starting to turn into a tricky
social situation on my part, until I took my elbows off the table at the
precise point my companion decided to put his weight on his and flipped the
table over, knocking all the wine glasses onto his lap.
Embarrassing introductions were immediately replaced by an embarrassing
clean-up operation by two obviously tipsy people.
Needless to say I have avoided all common points of contact in then office
building today, eschewing elevators and canteens until I feel I can look my
colleague in the eye again. Which may be never.
Tonight I am going to my Irish friend, Mairaid’s, house. Mairaid used to
work at Oskar Mobil 5 years ago. Since then she has moved to Turkey, bred,
and has a very lovely apartment overlooking the sea. So tonight is a St
Patrick’s Day celebration of sorts. I have green suede boots especially for
the occasion.
I am hoping to go home and have a little sleep first. Apparently there will
be French people there (her husband is from that part of the world) of the
single male variety. Unfortunately you cannot buy the leprechaun promoted
breakfast cereal ‘Frosties Lucky Charms’ here, but if you could - I would
stuff my bra with it.
On Saturday I will probably feel ill. And on Sunday I’ll have brunch with
corporate lawyer.
So that’s my weekend sewn up.
Last weekend, incidentally, I went snowboarding in the Uludag mountains
after taking a ferry across the Marmara sea. It was good. My first time on
a black run.
company and start getting paid, my Turkish work permit comes through. So
all that work, photocopying, making international phones calls, running
around, scanning, DHLing, meeting tax advisors, arguing with HR,
researching contracts and other nonsense enabled me to be legal for
precisely one week more than if I’d have just sat on my ass and done
nothing. Brilliant.
Today I am nursing a slight hangover. A rare occurrence for the all new
moi. I went to dinner last night with a Dutch corporate lawyer and three
bottles of sauvignon later we were putting the world to rights. That was
about when my colleague walked into the restaurant whose name,
embarrassingly, I could not remember. I also realized that I had forgotten
the name of my dinner companion. It was starting to turn into a tricky
social situation on my part, until I took my elbows off the table at the
precise point my companion decided to put his weight on his and flipped the
table over, knocking all the wine glasses onto his lap.
Embarrassing introductions were immediately replaced by an embarrassing
clean-up operation by two obviously tipsy people.
Needless to say I have avoided all common points of contact in then office
building today, eschewing elevators and canteens until I feel I can look my
colleague in the eye again. Which may be never.
Tonight I am going to my Irish friend, Mairaid’s, house. Mairaid used to
work at Oskar Mobil 5 years ago. Since then she has moved to Turkey, bred,
and has a very lovely apartment overlooking the sea. So tonight is a St
Patrick’s Day celebration of sorts. I have green suede boots especially for
the occasion.
I am hoping to go home and have a little sleep first. Apparently there will
be French people there (her husband is from that part of the world) of the
single male variety. Unfortunately you cannot buy the leprechaun promoted
breakfast cereal ‘Frosties Lucky Charms’ here, but if you could - I would
stuff my bra with it.
On Saturday I will probably feel ill. And on Sunday I’ll have brunch with
corporate lawyer.
So that’s my weekend sewn up.
Last weekend, incidentally, I went snowboarding in the Uludag mountains
after taking a ferry across the Marmara sea. It was good. My first time on
a black run.
Thursday 6 March 2008
Working girls, the bad date and why I need more shoes
There comes a time in every gals life when she has to work, unless of course she gets to live the dream by finding that rich handsome millionaire to marry sometime in her 20’s. However as THAT particular career plan never really happened (and I attriburte it to being moved to ‘Biggleswade’ as a teen – where the only wads of paper anyone ever had on their person in large amounts was anti social behaviour orders from the police) I have been forced to resign myself to a lifetime of office drudgery.
So far in my short and unillustrious career, I have been fairly lucky as far as office relationships go. One girl tried to bully me once at a newspaper in England, but that didn’t last long because I am far more scary than she. Plus she was just throwing her considerable weight around because she was screwing the editor and, as with most of her (and his) relationships, that pretty much ended as soon as he sobered up for a brief spell.
In the Czech Republic I didn’t really understand most of what was said most of the time, which meant I pretty much liked everyone because if they were fools, I didn’t know about it.
So fast forward to Turkey, a complex social system defined by what your job is, what you wear, who you know and how much bling you can cram onto your fingers. There is no avoiding it, my clothes are old and outdated and what I once mistook for a fabulous collection of shoes, with their worn heels and scuffed toes, no longer cut it. And unfortunately a 4 quid blouse from Promod and 7 year old Next suit (one size too small) does not a business executive make.
I, of course, am lost in a sea of social nuances. I never know when to keep my mouth shut and I have a habit of speaking to everyone in the same way - no matter who they are. I’m the sort of person who blathers on, only to writhe in her bed at night, unable to sleep, fretting about what I might have said wrong, who I have probably offended or which cat I have let out the bag. Thank God I didn’t get the PR position here. I’d have been a disaster.
All in all though my progess is slow, but it’s steady. Which I suppose is to be expected considering it’s my first major leap in years and I have been thrust from the world of creative concepts, cute advertising taglines and designing cool magazine concepts into a world of ARPU’s, KPI’s, CDI’s, BHT’s, COPS and a whole string of other acronyms I never really had to deal with until now. It’s enough to put you off the alphabet forever.
Socially, however, things are pretty good. I have had three dates since I arrived here, which is three more than I have had in living Czech memory (which due to copious amounts of wine was pretty short).
Todays lunch date, with the general manager of Hyundais weapons branch (did you know they make tanks? And trains? Well you do now) was nothing short of an absolute farce. First of all I couldn’t find the building, which was the skyscraper right next door, in heels on uneven terrain. Lots of unneccessary and toe crunching steps for no reason. My next faux pas was to empty the entire contents of my lunch tray (sauce and all) down the front of my trousers and smash all the crockery in the process bringing all of the restaurant to a gaping halt. Brilliant. My date seemed unperturbed by the fact he had invited a retard to lunch, which obviously means there is something quite wrong with him. I only just fished the last kidney bean out my trouser pocket a minute ago. I didn't even order kidney beans, how does that work? Sadly he is really not my type anyway and his hair could do with a wash.
I never was one for meeting people off websites or hanging out on the typical expat scene, but I have found the expats here to be an absolutely lovely bunch. Probably because they are a slightly more well rounded assortment than you tend to get in Prague, i.e. they can drink lots AND do interesting stuff AND they have generally lived in many many different cultures, unlike the people off the expats.cz site who settle in their first foreign city and think they are Richard Attenborough.
This week I am working hard again. My boss Martin is pleased with what I have done, which makes me happy as he is so busy I haven’t been able to hassle him for many explanations or help. Tomorrow I may go to the foreign correspondants club again. Friday is a small goodbye party for my German friend who is off travelling for a while and Saturday could see me going dancing with a Turkish chap I had lunch with last Sunday. But then again I may have to work.
I was asked to give a speech on ‘the youth market’ on Monday at a marketing club but I think I am going to have to cancel as all of my deadlines are next week. I’m off back to Prague in April to see Will before he moves to Kiev, see my friend who is undergoing chemo for quite extensive cancer, and visit all my other favourite people in the world.
Oh and I did a British Army fitness test this week. I mostly rank ‘excellent’ except in running where I am on the border of ‘average’ and ‘good’. I have also lost 6kg since August.
So far in my short and unillustrious career, I have been fairly lucky as far as office relationships go. One girl tried to bully me once at a newspaper in England, but that didn’t last long because I am far more scary than she. Plus she was just throwing her considerable weight around because she was screwing the editor and, as with most of her (and his) relationships, that pretty much ended as soon as he sobered up for a brief spell.
In the Czech Republic I didn’t really understand most of what was said most of the time, which meant I pretty much liked everyone because if they were fools, I didn’t know about it.
So fast forward to Turkey, a complex social system defined by what your job is, what you wear, who you know and how much bling you can cram onto your fingers. There is no avoiding it, my clothes are old and outdated and what I once mistook for a fabulous collection of shoes, with their worn heels and scuffed toes, no longer cut it. And unfortunately a 4 quid blouse from Promod and 7 year old Next suit (one size too small) does not a business executive make.
I, of course, am lost in a sea of social nuances. I never know when to keep my mouth shut and I have a habit of speaking to everyone in the same way - no matter who they are. I’m the sort of person who blathers on, only to writhe in her bed at night, unable to sleep, fretting about what I might have said wrong, who I have probably offended or which cat I have let out the bag. Thank God I didn’t get the PR position here. I’d have been a disaster.
All in all though my progess is slow, but it’s steady. Which I suppose is to be expected considering it’s my first major leap in years and I have been thrust from the world of creative concepts, cute advertising taglines and designing cool magazine concepts into a world of ARPU’s, KPI’s, CDI’s, BHT’s, COPS and a whole string of other acronyms I never really had to deal with until now. It’s enough to put you off the alphabet forever.
Socially, however, things are pretty good. I have had three dates since I arrived here, which is three more than I have had in living Czech memory (which due to copious amounts of wine was pretty short).
Todays lunch date, with the general manager of Hyundais weapons branch (did you know they make tanks? And trains? Well you do now) was nothing short of an absolute farce. First of all I couldn’t find the building, which was the skyscraper right next door, in heels on uneven terrain. Lots of unneccessary and toe crunching steps for no reason. My next faux pas was to empty the entire contents of my lunch tray (sauce and all) down the front of my trousers and smash all the crockery in the process bringing all of the restaurant to a gaping halt. Brilliant. My date seemed unperturbed by the fact he had invited a retard to lunch, which obviously means there is something quite wrong with him. I only just fished the last kidney bean out my trouser pocket a minute ago. I didn't even order kidney beans, how does that work? Sadly he is really not my type anyway and his hair could do with a wash.
I never was one for meeting people off websites or hanging out on the typical expat scene, but I have found the expats here to be an absolutely lovely bunch. Probably because they are a slightly more well rounded assortment than you tend to get in Prague, i.e. they can drink lots AND do interesting stuff AND they have generally lived in many many different cultures, unlike the people off the expats.cz site who settle in their first foreign city and think they are Richard Attenborough.
This week I am working hard again. My boss Martin is pleased with what I have done, which makes me happy as he is so busy I haven’t been able to hassle him for many explanations or help. Tomorrow I may go to the foreign correspondants club again. Friday is a small goodbye party for my German friend who is off travelling for a while and Saturday could see me going dancing with a Turkish chap I had lunch with last Sunday. But then again I may have to work.
I was asked to give a speech on ‘the youth market’ on Monday at a marketing club but I think I am going to have to cancel as all of my deadlines are next week. I’m off back to Prague in April to see Will before he moves to Kiev, see my friend who is undergoing chemo for quite extensive cancer, and visit all my other favourite people in the world.
Oh and I did a British Army fitness test this week. I mostly rank ‘excellent’ except in running where I am on the border of ‘average’ and ‘good’. I have also lost 6kg since August.
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