Another Eve in the apple

The thing about my life: it's full of surprises.


In the most unexpected turn of events, I had to get on the first plane to New York yesterday morning. It's been barely more than 24 hours, but here's a quick list of the notable things:

1/ How quickly I went through immigration. Last time, in September 2005, the conversation went like this:
- Where are you coming from?"
- London."
- You're French."
- Yep."
- Born in..."
- Abu Dhabi."
She pauses. I smile my most innocent smile.
- When was the last time you were in the United States?"
- 2001."
- Which month?"
- September."
She looks up. Stares at me as if I'm doing it on purpose. Bigger smile.
- Put your right finger there."
- ...
- ...
- What's going on?"
- I, er... Wrinkly fingers you see. Hyperhydrosis. One percent of the population..."
- Wait here, please."
She didn't seem that comfortable handing me my passport. Thankfully this time, the guy had better things to do than background checks on small four-eyed girls.

2/ The hilarious hotel my company put me in. W is the Starwood brand of boutique hotels - meaning designer places with lounge music in the lobby, elevators, rooms and people wandering in the hallways acting superhumanly cool. For some reason I've had to stay in a few boutique hotels this year: Hôtel Duo in Paris, Gallery Hotel Art in Florence, The Zetter and The Great Eastern in London. All different... All perfectly identical. Notice the recurrent "W" theme on this one...



Having said this, and as hard as I am to impress, this one has me with a big grin on my face. My room (probably "just" a Wonderful, as opposed to the Fantastic, Fabulous, Spectacular and Extreme Wow suites) is a corner room on the 42nd floor with view on the river.


3/ The blissful Bliss Spa line of soaps and lotions with the coolissimo retro design of a supermarket brand that leave my face smelling of bubble gum and the skin on my elbows and knees smooth like a baby's bottom. All this carried by the hotel and renewed... Everyday.


4/ HBO in the room AND a full DVD library!

5/ The memory of myself as an eleven-year old girl, at the bottom of a building here in New York, clowning around with my folks, making them laugh as I pictured myself as self-important business woman who would travel the world with a briefcase and a suit. There I was yesterday, on my way to the office straight from the airport, driving by that same building, on a business trip, without the briefcase or the suit. Thinking, damn. I'm someone I once imagined I'd become.

Review of a non-life, part II

Everyone knows that the heart of Turkey beats on the Bosphorus Strait, in the busy streets of Istanbul. Ah, Istanbul, Gateway to the East, Istanbul and its 10 million (10 million!) inhabitants, its Great Mosque, its Grand Bazar and its Manhattan-like area code (212).

As luck and work would have it, however, on Thursday, July 19th, I landed in the hills of Central Anatolia. Ankara, political and artificial capital and eternal home to late ruler Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, was slowly falling prey to the dark. The long cab ride to the hotel didn't give me much to hope for. The mausoleum, unmistakably recognizable from the sky, even to the untrained eye, wasn't enough to make me look forward to my stay there.

I was excited, though. I wasn't there to be a tourist. I knew was about to be witness to a crucial moment in Turkey's politics.

So there I am, checking in the hotel and trying to get my laptop to function. It's 2 a.m. and I'm finally getting somewhere. I'm up early the next day to get some work done. In typical teacher's daughter fashion, I order a "Traditional Turkish Breakfast." Turkish tea (blacker and stronger than the blackest and strongest of English teas), fried eggs, bread, tomatoes, olives (olives!) and this smell... Oh sweet Baby Jesus... The smell of the goat cheese on my tray... It's more than my sleep-deprived organism and sensitive stomach can bear. As I stumble to the bathroom and shove my head down the toilet, I vow to stick to the pancakes. So much for open-mindedness.


Around noon, the city is relatively quiet under the scorching sun. As I step out for a quick break, a beautiful, sweet and almost chilling melody fills the air. It's the muezzin, calling for prayer. What a voice. Years since I had heard that. I was so little I don't even know how I could even have kept that memory. For the rest of my stay in Ankara, I'd stop and listen, every time.

I make time to visit the Mosque. At the entrance, I realize I left my scarf in the hotel room. I curse my forgetfulness and sneak in, hoping to observe and not get caught. It's about 30 seconds before the guard spots me. He walks towards me, gesturing, and drags me to a small cupboard. He chooses a pink, flowery scarf and wraps it around my head. There, woman. Now go. I go.


The Mosque is beautiful, the light flows in from all sides and the air is cool. The carpet is thick and soft under my feet. On the surrounding balconies, women are praying in small groups. Men are sitting in the main space, solitary and thoughtful. The serenity is palpable, it's all so inviting, I feel like spending the rest of the afternoon there.


But Atatürk awaits. His remains lie at the top of a hill, on military ground. Talk about worship... I won't go into it, but it does look like he both threw Turkey into modernity and traumatized it. He even "invented" a whole new alphabet...


He's been dead for 70 years, but his über-secularism is still causing mayhem in this Muslim country. He thought religion held the country back. As he put it himself:


The army still believes that it is its duty to preserve the secular principles of the Founder. In a public statement that eventually led the government to dissolve, it opposed Prime Minister Erdogan's choice for a president: a man whose wife wears a scarf in public. In a country where the military holds such political power, these early general elections turned out to be a true exercise in democracy.


And so the people spoke: they gave full legitimacy to a religion-friendly government who also made Turkey's economy one of the most attractive among emerging markets. Foreign investors applauded, civilians sang and danced as the military wavered from this giant slap in the face. A retired officer, interviewed by BBC World, called the event a "backward step."

All of this is fascinating, but have I mentioned my hamman experience? Not wanting to miss out, I let a young woman bathe me. I lay on the marble while she scrubbed me from head to toes, then soaped me up, washed my hair and rinsed me with warm water for the enormous marble sinks. She then took me to a room full of beds and I relaxed to the sound of a fountain and ate juicy pears to quench my thirst. Probably the most sensual half hour of my existence.


At Ankara's citadel, otherwise known as Ulus Kale, I bought two small kilims. I was incredibly proud of myself, until I decided to show them off and compare them to the one my colleague had bought in Istanbul. His contact there had a whole collection, all made by his grandmother, for her dowry. When she ran out of cotton, she went on with wool. It had so many colors and different threads. Mine, next to his, looked pathetic and soulless. Humiliation overcome, they are now bravely decorating my floors.


We left the hotel for the airport at 4 a.m. on Tuesday, July 24th, after a quiet evening at the bar. The barmaid, at our old timer's request, learnt how to make a Silver Bullet (Bombay Sapphire, a twist of lemon, an olive, three drops of dry Vermouth). She was also kind enough to recommend a nearby Turkish restaurant and sent us on our way with the sweetest of instructions.

Review of a non-life, part I

I'd promised myself I'd never mention anything about what I do for a living in this blog. But the key thing about my life these days is that I have none. Or rather, that it is too inextricably linked with work. Where to begin, where to begin.

I could start by all the chapters I skipped this year... The G8, at Heiligendamm, maybe. Let's see... A quick copy/paste and a few snapshots should do it:

June 6th:
"I arrived at the G8 location. Plane to Hamburg, then train to Rostock, where I had to get off, because all tracks to Bad Doberan - last location before Heiligendamm, where the meetings are taking place - were blocked by the protesters with branches and trees. They did the same with all the principal roads.


They are incredibly organized, but so is the police. It's so militarized around here, I can't begin to tell you how weirded out the locals are. They'd never received so much attention.

After an 80-euro cab ride (the detours are enormous), I arrived at my destination. The location is unbelievably gorgeous. Heiligendamm is part of a series of spa towns on the Baltic Sea coast, all of which became famous at the end of the 19th century when some king made it fashionable to summer here, where the views are breathtaking and the weather unpredictable.


Because all the hotels were booked, I had to find myself a guest house, located about 1.5km away from the centre where I work.

My transport means is a bike. A huge group of protesters disguised as a clowns was arrested right in front of where I'm staying, as I was on my way back to the center. I cycled on a dirt road through fields of cereals to get here. It's so surreal.


Oh, and I'm drinking Africola. This is coca cola from Africa. You know. To show they'll keep their Gleneagles promises about canceling the African debt."

June 7th:
"This is like the war. I'm being controlled at every corner, me on my bike. After dinner, as I was heading home, I took the gravel path across the fields. 2 barrages of polizei made me stop to inspect me last night and one this morning. Light on my face, identifying myself "accreditation, passport, ja ja, letter from landlady, I am staying there, danke, guten nacht und good luck..." Very nice guys in combat costume, holding my bike while I rummage through my bag trying to find the requested documents...

And all the while, above my head as I'm pedaling myself home, helicopters with lights checking the fields. On the ground, it's all i can do to avoid frogs and toads. which by the way, are really loud animals. I even saw a rabbit.

Today, Bono is giving a concert in Rostock, about 22 km away from here. We're going with the camera. I hate this Bono b'stard."

June 8th:

"I'm back for the last report on the G8 summit. Tech guy is unplugging all computers, we're all about to leave.


Nothing major today. The 8 leaders didn't do so good on the help for Africa, pissing off my friend Bono and a few other more capable, credible people. Putin mocked Bush and Bush dissed Putin, all very politely. Sarkozy's role was pretty much limited to announcing Bush's diarrhea to the media after the meeting he had with him this morning. And all in all, Merkel did good.

I was up at 5h45, riding down my footpath at 6h30, spent my day running around... And so I finished with a stroll on the beach, dipped my feet in the freezing cold Baltic Sea as the sun set behind a wooden pier. All idyllic, except maybe for the food. Food is crap here, and that's an understatement.

I'ma bike my ass home now. I'll be on my way tomorrow. To Brussels."

Mind officially lost

I know I haven't been the most faithful of bloggers these days, but I have a real excuse. I go from being a heinous bitch with a big bag full of snyde remarks, to acting like a drunken pompous-ass loser to disappearing and turning silent like a hermit to weeping-and-laughing over the keeeoootiest-pootiest stuff, all this in the space of 10 minutes. I don't need a shrink to see that I am losing my mind. Also, if your boss AND your boss's boss both tell you that you need to rest, it's a sure sign that something's definitely not right.

Just this morning at work, I found that we'd just received some Twinings Lady Grey tea, so I ooh-and-aah'd excitedly. A colleague, trying to make conversation, asked me something I didn't understand about the origin or the making of that tea. Instead of responding like an adult human being ("I'm sorry, what did you just say?"), I grabbed a bag of Earl Grey and got all: "Did you know that Lady Grey has orange in it? And she's Earl Grey's wife. They go together in the Twinings carton and they hold hands and go 'lalala' and have babies Grey..." While rubbing the two teabags together and making kissy noises. Imminent breakdown: 1. Puzzled workmate: 1. Well done, me.

Fear not, I am doing something about it. Leaving tomorrow on an emergency mini-break. I even got a pedicure at Lovely Ms. Juliette's across the street, and now i have bright-red toenails, proof that i'm dead serious about this. White sand, blue water. I have every intention of wearing nothing but a bikini, and plan to change into other bikinis exclusively. I am also taking my fabulous beach hat. Forecast, according to BBC Weather: warm as hell, sunny as fuck.

In the meantime, I'm de-stressing with the help of this blog for which I have Someone to thank. The captions are killing me. The usual little pets aren't bad, but do check out the crocs, the bats and the baby rays in the unusual animals section. Can't stand it.

Buh bye now.

Only a week

It's only been a week. Too intense for me to even go into details. Here are the highlights.

I saw sweet, grey London covered in snow, where I went for work.


Paris in turn, was as sad as it was sunny.


Then life began again, early Monday morning.


It doesn't wait for anybody, does it.


Tête la première et en plein coeur. Merci.

Ixelloise

Long, sunny day in Amsterdam. I was there for work today. Shame I didn't get to go sightseeing, there really is a lovely feel to that place. What I didn't realize was how far it is from Brussels. Not less than 2h30 by train...

On my way back, I was sitting in front of a couple of English yobs disguised as businessmen:
- I'd never realized Den Haag was actually The Hague."
- You serious? Oh, it's easy, mate. 'Den' is 'The' and 'Haag' is 'Hague.'"
- ..."
- Wot?"
- I'd figured that out by myself, thank you very much."
- ..."
- ..."
- You cunt."

I have a new bed. And a sofa. And shelves. My Ikea home in Ixelles. We met my Bolivian neighbor in the process, he helped us carry the heavy stuff. Great guy, very sweet, very well-traveled.

Ixelles is a cool area, in all senses of the word. you find galleries, great restaurants, an international atmosphere... There are good bookstores around, too. Candide is the one closest to my new place. It's big and bright and it's old school.






I was given this book as a present. I should aim at turning into a "relaxed, smiling Ixelloise." Point taken. I'll do my best.


Brussels itself is tiny. The city is composed of 17 "communes" - the equivalent of boroughs in London, I would guess. Ixelles is one of them. Postcode: 1050. The way it happens here, everyone has to register at the town hall. You show up with a couple of passport pictures, your renting contract and a proof of identity and you tell them you've just moved in. To make sure you're not lying, they send a cop over to your house. The cop checks if your name is on the mailbox or the doorbell, rings, makes sure you're you if you're there or leaves a note if you're not. You have to bring the note back to the police station. Once that's done, you officially become a proud resident of your commune.

I hadn't seen my Belgian friend Virginie in a year. She got married last November and we met up last night for dinner. She chose Jaloa. Wild mushroom cappuccino, roasted scallops in cauliflower cream with a hint of truffle, tender piece of baby boar and last, but not least, a slice of pineapple with chocolate fondant, vanilla ice-cream and mint leaves (by the way, just FYI, vanilla and mint are an amazing combination - don't know why I never thought of that). We ordered a great Burgundy to go with it, from Savigny-les-Beaunes - a wink to little Chloe, 9, and baby sister Emma, 7, who are growing up in that same village. Lovely meal, great service, cute place. Winner of the San Pellegrino Fashion Food 2005 prize, whatever that is, and listed among the Jeunes Restaurateurs d'Europe. I'm thinking this is good.

My friend's obsessed with sardines. She keeps asking me whether I already ate some. Here's to her - my first can. They were delish.

Compass found

There's one notable thing about Brussels. People here are as relaxed as they are bureaucratic. Strangely enough, this makes for an interesting combination. The amount of administrative documentation required to work with and around the EU institutions is insane, but everything is so organized, systemized, people are so helpful and nice, you don't even feel it. I haven't queued for more than 5 minutes, not once. Then again, I didn't see it all, did I.

But they are quite chilled. The Australians* of Europe, said a colleague of mine, Australian himself. That crossed my mind.

Though I did meet the most stressed out of Brusselians tonight. The efficient real estate agent Emmanuel. We saw two places. One near Place Brugman, epicenter of the expat neighborhood, in a beautiful old house. Wooden floors, high ceilings, original mouldings... All the sidewalks are paved. The present tenant is leaving it to move in with his girlfriend and was sorry to go, gave me a good feeling. The second was a gigantic place near the University, across the street from the Ixelles cemetery. We then went for a beer - Orval, one of the five beers produced by trappist monks - in bar Le Tavernier not too far from there. A fun place, with live music from time to time.

Emmanuel adores his Brussels. Knows it inside out. He calls it a sleeping beauty, quiet at first sight, with quite a lot going on below the surface. He recommended moving around during the week, change neighborhoods to appreciate the atmosphere of the town. The University, Châtelain, Flagey, among other areas. For lunch, brunch and the best all-you-can-eat buffet (35 euros a person include as much lobster as you can stuff down your throat), the Conrad Hotel (where I was lucky enough to stay last October for work). La Bécasse, one of the oldest restaurants in the University area, he said. La Quincaillerie, former hardware store, a great place to take your parents near Châtelain. Le Macaron, on Châtelain, for some private time with someone.

For clubbing, he mentioned Fuse (excellent sound in a dodgy area, take care when you leave at 5am, but they might not let you in with sneakers). Mirano Continental - for regulars, near Madou. I know this is where they hold the Dirty Dancing nights. Galerie Louise, in the lower ground level of the shopping center. Too posh, but great music.

But "Brussels is a village", he added. For fashion and for partying without being recognized (he was married twice, has two teenage kids and we suspect that he's gay), go to Antwerp. Noted.

Seeing him tomorrow again for a cosy little place near Brugman.

Something to read before I go.

* Talking about Australia, here's a bit of Melbourne cool. From Y.

Brand new day-to-day

On my way to work, at 08:10am this morning:


The EU Commission... From behind: