My mission is fulfilled. I went to Norway over the weekend past and threw all my strength into supporting Alexander Rybak on his way to Eurovision 2009 victory for Norway. The cute Belarusian violinist won the hearts of millions across the entire Europe and gave a new spark to Norway's Constitution Day, 17 May. The timing could not have been better! Bravo, Sasha!
I have to add here that I am obsessed with Eurovision. I never owned a TV set in my life, but recently considered buying a fancy flat-screen plasma one, for no other reason than being able to watch Eurovision – in style I never enjoyed. I dropped the idea literally before the counter – which, in modern world, means being one click away from an online purchase. The calculative side of me won – but the passionate side of me belongs truly, madly and most deeply to the infamous Song Contest.
This year's Eurovision was special in many ways. Below is a modest attempt to summarise some of my - purely subjective – impressions from last weekend. I am not a professional coverage reporter, as the material below will no doubt show.
Highlight of the night: Song quality. Eurovision is not what you'd think of first when defining good-quality music. Most representatives are typically nowhere short of embarrassing. This year, however, was marked by a string of excellent songs and performances. Of course, there was Rybak, the winner, with his virtuoso violin playing and supporting Frikar dancers. Bosnia & Herzegovina impressed with a beautiful ballad by ancient rockers Regina and perfect stage coordination. Estonian ladies' orchestra Urban Symphony was classy and stunning in every way. Azerbaijan pulled out a powerful combination of ethnic rhythms and modern pop. The list goes on; Iceland, Denmark, France and the UK all impressed with quality. For the likes of France and the UK especially, who have participated since Eurovision’s very early days in the 1950s and have thus somewhat lost the spark – this was quite an achievement.
Improvement of the night: Voting system. It is not a secret how politically loaded and diaspora-influenced public voting is in Eurovision. 2009 saw the long-awaited change in the voting system – even if for the Finals only – whereby points were awarded 50-50 by the public and a special jury of music experts. While I fully align with the idea as such, I could not help noticing little change in some countries' votes. Perhaps the jury of so-called independent music experts was as biased as the general public and consisted partly of that hapless diaspora!
Trend of the night: National languages. After the initial euphoria from being allowed to perform in languages other than the national (in 1999), the trend reversed with Serbia's Eurovision 2007 winner “Molitva”, lyrics written fully in Serbian. The most notable this year was Estonia, with its first song in Estonian ever since the language restriction was lifted. The most politically correct entry was undoubtedly Israel, singing in a mix of Hebrew, Arabic and English. Latvia and Lithuania made a bow of respect towards their big neighbour, performing a full song and a verse in Russian language, respectively. Russia supported the trend with its Russian/Ukrainian song. I personally found this reversal towards national languages very refreshing.
Sweet couples of the night: Countries that exchanged 12 points. It did not take a rocket scientist to predict whom Bosnia & Herzegovina would award 12 points to. Who else but the neighbouring Croatia, even if an outsider of the Contest otherwise? Croatia was quick to return the favour. Another sweet couple I could not help noticing was Romania and Moldova. Isn't that the same country, anyway?
Misfit of the night: Serbia. It was just recently that Eurovision ceased being more a joke than anything else. Finland did a wonderful job hosting the Contest back in 2007, where it treated the entire event as a comedy show. Those days are gone. All songs this year were serious in their victory pursuit – except for one. Serbia clearly left its seriousness at home, sending to the Contest Marko Kon and Milaan with a highly sarcastic “Cipela” dominated by the sound of accordion. I have to admit that I absolutely loved the song; however, it simply didn't fit with the rest of this year's Contest and hence never made it past the semi-finals. As an example, Croatia fitted in much better and did qualify for the finals thanks to the jury selection – despite its much weaker public vote compared to Serbia.
Disappointment of the night: Greece. Hellenic hunk Sakis Rouvas must have focused too much on his six-pack and performance (both admittedly amazing, especially the former) at the expense of song quality (see above). Hence, despite all that hype, he only came 7th, disappointing thousands of Greek viewers at home and beyond. Greece was actually interesting in many ways this year. The so-called cradle of democracy, it shocked me with a most non-democratic national song selection. I mean, Greeks could choose between Sakis, Sakis and Sakis this year, with songs of varying degrees of non-listenability. That doesn't give much, erm, choice – at least in my humble opinion.
Scare of the night: Albania. Absolutely. I am still wondering if the on-stage greenman was some kind of carbon-friendly Spiderman version – or tribute to USSR's classic "Phantomas" movie? Either way, it was uncomfortably scary. Seriously guys, next time consider popping in to the neighbouring Greece for stage act ideas.
Sad moment of the night: Malta. It was singer Chiara's third time round representing Eurovision for her country. How many people live in Malta again? Chiara was outstanding in every way, and had a potential winner of a song. For some reason, however, it finished alongside such outsiders as Finland, Spain and Lithuania. I hope at least that those Maltese folks finally got the message.
National vote announcer of the night: Bosnia & Herzegovina. Amid the dull, "what a great performance", "well done Moscow", etc, national vote announcers, a ray of light finally shone through. Who else but our old friend Elvir Laković "Laka", last year's Bosnia & Herzegovina's Eurovision entry? He didn't seem to have changed one bit. I am not even sure he had washed his hair since last year's "Pokušaj". Laka, we missed you!
See you all in Norway next year.
Monday, 18 May 2009
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Russian or Latvian? My identity crisis
As many of you know, I typically present myself as a "Russian Latvian". I was born in Latvia of Russian-speaking parents, of whom my mother is a pure-blooded Russian and father is an explosive Lithuanian/Polish mix. I was consequently raised in Latvia, attended a Russian-speaking school there, and hold a Latvian citizenship. What does that all make me?
Having struggled to answer this question for years, I thought I could at least try and characterise my controversial nationality under a few broad topics below.
Self-reference. When I am in Latvia, I have to go as a Russian. There is no other way, as I would meet widespread misunderstanding trying to break into the circles of "true" Latvians – especially with an offensively non-Latvian surname like mine. The old-style Latvian passports even used to have a mandatory nationality entry, where I had no choice but to quote "Russian". Thankfully, "Russian" in Latvian language ("Krieviete") looks nothing like "Russian" in most other languages, and my ethnic confidentiality was therefore honoured – at least abroad. New Latvian passports have optional entry of nationality, which I have embraced but some hardcore minorities do still exploit to preserve that little bit of Russian-ness in addition to the (much cherished) ticket to the EU.
On the other hand, when I am abroad, I am most certainly not a Russian – again, in an attempt to avoid potential misunderstanding. Saying I am Russian in a place like the UK would chuck me into a multitude of citizens of Russian Federation proper, which would be grossly incorrect. Saying I am Latvian would represent the reality better, but would then leave me with a pinch of deep-rooted shame towards my parents – who spent years trying to convince me I was Russian and still haven't quite recovered from my non-acknowledgement of the fact. The classic answer I give is therefore "I am from Latvia", which is void of nationalistically loaded adjectives altogether.
Language. Russian is my mother tongue and the language I use to communicate with my parents and extended family. It is also the language I find most comfortable using out of a list of languages I claim to speak with varying extent of non-proficiency. I will probably scream in Russian when in extreme pain (such as labour), and speak Russian to my children. All that supposedly makes me a Russian. At the same time, I spend most of my time speaking and thinking in English, see my dreams in English and nightmares in German, use Finnish swearwords during spells of rage, talk to my computer in a mixture of Swedish and Greek, use Latvian in everyday affairs on my infrequent visits to Latvia, and currently listen to songs performed predominantly in Serbian and Croatian. One would only conclude that the language criterion is a little blurred there.
Religion. I was baptised in a Russian Orthodox Church centuries ago, but have since attended Russian Orthodox services a mere handful of times; as a tourist or guiding other tourists. I spent a good part of my life actively engaged in Anglican Church activities – including running a Soup Kitchen project, organising children's nativity plays, teaching at Sunday School and serving as an acolyte. On top of that, I have sung in Episcopal and Roman Catholic choirs, led Presbyterian summer camps, and even tried out a certain charismatic congregation in Latvia. If I were to marry a Catholic or Protestant boy who felt strongly about his religion, I would abandon my Orthodox stamp in no time. The story goes on; I am most certainly not Russian here. Neither am I a classic Latvian Protestant Lutheran or, in case of our Latgale region, Roman Catholic. In short, religion does not seem to provide the answer.
National symbols. I would rather have myself buried alive than associated with any of the Russian national memorabilia. There is a mini Latvian flag scotch-taped to my work computer and an enlarged version in my London flat, which I reveal on important national occasions. I have had Latvian national anthem on my ipod for years. The only liking I hold for its Russian counterpart is closely associated with the tune, which is that of the former anthem of the USSR. However strong the nostalgic aspect, the lyrics, "Glory be, the country! We are proud of you!", leave me utterly indifferent, if not a little irritated by this insult to Lenin’s precious memory. While my extensive flag collection also includes Finland, Ireland, Scotland, UK, ex-Yugoslavia and USSR, and my 80-Gb ipod features national songs of all of the above plus Greece – the verdict here is definitely Latvian.
Sports. I am passionate about Latvian national ice hockey team no matter how bad they are (three years ago they lost 0-11 to Canada – on their home grounds), but have never supported Russia in any sports. Neither does my passion for Latvia cover anything else besides ice hockey. Instead, I have a history of rather unstable country preferences in winter sports (where Germany was perhaps the strongest at some distant point in time) and always support Brits and Serbs in tennis. My favourite spectator sport after ice hockey is football, where my passions change with the direction of the wind. For the next FIFA World Cup, I have a strong fear of losing my voice on "Lijepa Li Si", which I would never do for Latvia or Russia. The conclusion would be a slight tendency towards Latvia.
Music. I have equal disrespect for modern music scene of Latvia and Russia (the former a bunch of drinking songs and the latter all long-legged and big-boobed). As far as non-mainstream music is concerned, I admire Latvian opera singers – many of whom are world-class masters – and Russian classical composers, with which the country has truly been blessed. When listening to Tchaikovsky's Overture from "1812", I even feel a certain pride to be associated with Russians. But then again, I could never miss taking credit for beating the French. Result: neither Latvian nor Russian.
Other nations. Sometimes one's nationality can be determined from their attitude towards other nations. For example, Latvians have this tearfully sweet intimacy with Lithuanians, whom they even call "brothers" many a time. I concur. Lithuanians are definitely brothers, which makes me a Latvian. At the same time, Serbs are absolutely brothers, too, which does not make me Latvian at all. I guess in this situation, I qualify as both Latvian and Russian.
Summarising all of the above, I remain undecided. It may be that this inability to put myself under any national umbrella is exactly the origin of my endless country crushes: http://anjci.blogspot.com/2009/05/me-and-my-country-obsessions.html. I don’t have a clear-cut national identity – and my feeling is that I will spend quite a while looking for it.
Having struggled to answer this question for years, I thought I could at least try and characterise my controversial nationality under a few broad topics below.
Self-reference. When I am in Latvia, I have to go as a Russian. There is no other way, as I would meet widespread misunderstanding trying to break into the circles of "true" Latvians – especially with an offensively non-Latvian surname like mine. The old-style Latvian passports even used to have a mandatory nationality entry, where I had no choice but to quote "Russian". Thankfully, "Russian" in Latvian language ("Krieviete") looks nothing like "Russian" in most other languages, and my ethnic confidentiality was therefore honoured – at least abroad. New Latvian passports have optional entry of nationality, which I have embraced but some hardcore minorities do still exploit to preserve that little bit of Russian-ness in addition to the (much cherished) ticket to the EU.
On the other hand, when I am abroad, I am most certainly not a Russian – again, in an attempt to avoid potential misunderstanding. Saying I am Russian in a place like the UK would chuck me into a multitude of citizens of Russian Federation proper, which would be grossly incorrect. Saying I am Latvian would represent the reality better, but would then leave me with a pinch of deep-rooted shame towards my parents – who spent years trying to convince me I was Russian and still haven't quite recovered from my non-acknowledgement of the fact. The classic answer I give is therefore "I am from Latvia", which is void of nationalistically loaded adjectives altogether.
Language. Russian is my mother tongue and the language I use to communicate with my parents and extended family. It is also the language I find most comfortable using out of a list of languages I claim to speak with varying extent of non-proficiency. I will probably scream in Russian when in extreme pain (such as labour), and speak Russian to my children. All that supposedly makes me a Russian. At the same time, I spend most of my time speaking and thinking in English, see my dreams in English and nightmares in German, use Finnish swearwords during spells of rage, talk to my computer in a mixture of Swedish and Greek, use Latvian in everyday affairs on my infrequent visits to Latvia, and currently listen to songs performed predominantly in Serbian and Croatian. One would only conclude that the language criterion is a little blurred there.
Religion. I was baptised in a Russian Orthodox Church centuries ago, but have since attended Russian Orthodox services a mere handful of times; as a tourist or guiding other tourists. I spent a good part of my life actively engaged in Anglican Church activities – including running a Soup Kitchen project, organising children's nativity plays, teaching at Sunday School and serving as an acolyte. On top of that, I have sung in Episcopal and Roman Catholic choirs, led Presbyterian summer camps, and even tried out a certain charismatic congregation in Latvia. If I were to marry a Catholic or Protestant boy who felt strongly about his religion, I would abandon my Orthodox stamp in no time. The story goes on; I am most certainly not Russian here. Neither am I a classic Latvian Protestant Lutheran or, in case of our Latgale region, Roman Catholic. In short, religion does not seem to provide the answer.
National symbols. I would rather have myself buried alive than associated with any of the Russian national memorabilia. There is a mini Latvian flag scotch-taped to my work computer and an enlarged version in my London flat, which I reveal on important national occasions. I have had Latvian national anthem on my ipod for years. The only liking I hold for its Russian counterpart is closely associated with the tune, which is that of the former anthem of the USSR. However strong the nostalgic aspect, the lyrics, "Glory be, the country! We are proud of you!", leave me utterly indifferent, if not a little irritated by this insult to Lenin’s precious memory. While my extensive flag collection also includes Finland, Ireland, Scotland, UK, ex-Yugoslavia and USSR, and my 80-Gb ipod features national songs of all of the above plus Greece – the verdict here is definitely Latvian.
Sports. I am passionate about Latvian national ice hockey team no matter how bad they are (three years ago they lost 0-11 to Canada – on their home grounds), but have never supported Russia in any sports. Neither does my passion for Latvia cover anything else besides ice hockey. Instead, I have a history of rather unstable country preferences in winter sports (where Germany was perhaps the strongest at some distant point in time) and always support Brits and Serbs in tennis. My favourite spectator sport after ice hockey is football, where my passions change with the direction of the wind. For the next FIFA World Cup, I have a strong fear of losing my voice on "Lijepa Li Si", which I would never do for Latvia or Russia. The conclusion would be a slight tendency towards Latvia.
Music. I have equal disrespect for modern music scene of Latvia and Russia (the former a bunch of drinking songs and the latter all long-legged and big-boobed). As far as non-mainstream music is concerned, I admire Latvian opera singers – many of whom are world-class masters – and Russian classical composers, with which the country has truly been blessed. When listening to Tchaikovsky's Overture from "1812", I even feel a certain pride to be associated with Russians. But then again, I could never miss taking credit for beating the French. Result: neither Latvian nor Russian.
Other nations. Sometimes one's nationality can be determined from their attitude towards other nations. For example, Latvians have this tearfully sweet intimacy with Lithuanians, whom they even call "brothers" many a time. I concur. Lithuanians are definitely brothers, which makes me a Latvian. At the same time, Serbs are absolutely brothers, too, which does not make me Latvian at all. I guess in this situation, I qualify as both Latvian and Russian.
Summarising all of the above, I remain undecided. It may be that this inability to put myself under any national umbrella is exactly the origin of my endless country crushes: http://anjci.blogspot.com/2009/05/me-and-my-country-obsessions.html. I don’t have a clear-cut national identity – and my feeling is that I will spend quite a while looking for it.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Anthem to the City's real people
Somehow I was never too good at befriending the cool people of investment banking. Many of my colleagues were jumping over their heads to hold the serving tray at lunches attended by anyone remotely senior at UBS. That hypocrisy tournament never interested me too much. I actually found it excruciatingly boring. Networking is all fine and some of those senior people are indeed interesting and fun – but breaking one's neck just to get into some cool grey-haired guy's calendar is just not worth it. Chances are, they won't remember you. What you might resort to as a result is telling your grandchildren about the experience – assuming that the cool guy won't have embarrassed himself with some corporate scandal or, worse, leading a once respected investment bank into bankruptcy.
However, I have always been extremely fond of bonding with the people most bankers usually fail to notice. Cleaners, cooks, barristers, shoe-shine guys, waiters, receptionists, security guards, mailroom staff... the list goes on. The people whose presence makes our bankers' lives more comfortable and manageable – and sometimes more cheerful, too.
The first such uncool friend I made at UBS was Dee, a black gentleman from British Guyana and never without a smile on his face. I first heard his "shoe-shine" call during my internship at UBS in the summer 2005. One year later I was back as a full-time employee – and was thrilled to hear Dee's voice again, so familiar and dear, calling out to bankers for a bit of a polish, wax or even new shoelaces. The fellow was really a master of his trade – and a wonderful person, too. Our office friendship developed quickly and ended abruptly. We offered each other chocolates, discussed holiday plans, exchanged Christmas cards and confessed many a flaming secret – until one day I was made redundant and given ten minutes to pack my stuff and never to return. I thought I would never see Dee again, but, luckily, bumped into him just the other day. Nearly one year had passed since we last met. Bless the fellow – he had tears in his eyes and pressed my hand to his heart. I was very happy to see him again, and touched to the bottom of my heart to see how human and genuine his own behaviour was towards me.
Then there was the Starbucks Polish team. Those of you from UBS 2 Finsbury Avenue (2FA) offices should very well know a small Starbucks on the ground floor. I can bet the place has changed since I left. However, I have a perfect recollection of, and unreserved gratitude to the good old Polish team which once sorted our caffeine fixes so well. Would anyone remember Michal, the skinny type with a Master's degree in Economics? Or Adam, a moustached Warsaw native, likewise highly educated and working at Starbucks to finance his brand new house? Or Gosia, the polyglot lady fluent in Polish, Russian, French, English and Turkish? Perhaps one would also remember Camilla, an exotic Brazilian lady adding a bit of flavour to the otherwise homogenous Polish crowd. I am grateful to you all! Many a time did I run downstairs to Starbucks for a bit of human touch – a drastic change from the stress-soaked environment just five floors above. The team welcomed me. I have to admit that there were very few times when I actually had to pay for my coffee, especially in the hours of complete stress and misery. Seriously, guys, I don't know how I would have coped without you.
There was also Amanda, the PA of one of the most senior guys UBS 2FA offices have ever housed. I doubt anyone could beat Amanda when it came to positive load. She was smiling ceaselessly from morning till 5pm (secretaries' leaving time), chirping on about every possible topic my girlie mind was deprived of. Babies’ clothes, cute teapots, flower-scented perfumes, sweet champagne, The Sound of Music – there was no stopping her. The angel of a lady, she saved me fruit from her boss's plate on the days the gentleman decided not to show up. Then once, on the UBS Christmas Party night, I barely managed to escape work, failed to get an allocated cab to the venue, was brushed aside by my so-called colleague mates – when Amanda appeared out of the blue, urging me to follow her. Suddenly I found myself in her boss's private car, driven by his personal chauffeur! I think I had never arrived to any party in such style.
Of course there were also countless other secretaries. Though technically not part of our support staff, they were notably different from the pool of bankers they did belong to. I found them such an inexhaustible source of smiles, fashion (or at least certain aspirations thereto) and femininity – in the crowd of sombre Ted Baker suits, blue shirts (pink on Fridays) and buy-2-get-1-free matching ties.
I could never forget Techie, the Filipino catering lady who distributed fruit baskets every night at 7pm. I remember her motherly grumping about eating fruit, as "it's good for you". After I had been made redundant, I bumped into Techie on my way out and delivered the fresh redundancy news. She grabbed my hand, dragged me to some room, pushed me inside and shut the door. It looked like paradise. All over the walls were cases full of biscuits. Those executive biscuits we used to nick from senior guys' plates after their secretaries would leave. Next thing I remember was Techie stuffing a bag full of those gorgeous biscuits and forcing the treasure into my arms. Good luck my girl, she said, not listening to any objections from my side. Mind you, there weren't many.
The funniest place at UBS though was our mailroom, where all business-related mail was handled. Somehow I became really good buddies with the mailroom boys, most of whom, coming from the North of England and Northern Ireland, boasted incredible sense of humour. Seriously, a trip to the mailroom was like a visit to a stand-up comedian show. Mailroom connections had a number of advantages, too. My Canadian friends may remember a DHL package for their little boy, which I duly billed to some random client (I have confessed my sins since). And would anyone recall receiving a Christmas card from me in 2007? You may want to re-check the stamp on that envelope.
There is certainly nothing wrong in making an effort to meet the people who went far in life professionally. Sometimes it is simply unavoidable, as everyone around is doing so. However, I find it highly unlikely that those cool people will remember you when the tide turns against them. They'll be busy saving their own necks and will not think twice of leaving you to drown overboard. And it is those few remarkably real, simple people that I am grateful to for surviving two years of my life as an investment banker – the people who never compromised their humanity.
I bumped into my former boss the other day. He looked right through me. And I don't think it was my new hairstyle that stopped him from recognising me.
However, I have always been extremely fond of bonding with the people most bankers usually fail to notice. Cleaners, cooks, barristers, shoe-shine guys, waiters, receptionists, security guards, mailroom staff... the list goes on. The people whose presence makes our bankers' lives more comfortable and manageable – and sometimes more cheerful, too.
The first such uncool friend I made at UBS was Dee, a black gentleman from British Guyana and never without a smile on his face. I first heard his "shoe-shine" call during my internship at UBS in the summer 2005. One year later I was back as a full-time employee – and was thrilled to hear Dee's voice again, so familiar and dear, calling out to bankers for a bit of a polish, wax or even new shoelaces. The fellow was really a master of his trade – and a wonderful person, too. Our office friendship developed quickly and ended abruptly. We offered each other chocolates, discussed holiday plans, exchanged Christmas cards and confessed many a flaming secret – until one day I was made redundant and given ten minutes to pack my stuff and never to return. I thought I would never see Dee again, but, luckily, bumped into him just the other day. Nearly one year had passed since we last met. Bless the fellow – he had tears in his eyes and pressed my hand to his heart. I was very happy to see him again, and touched to the bottom of my heart to see how human and genuine his own behaviour was towards me.
Then there was the Starbucks Polish team. Those of you from UBS 2 Finsbury Avenue (2FA) offices should very well know a small Starbucks on the ground floor. I can bet the place has changed since I left. However, I have a perfect recollection of, and unreserved gratitude to the good old Polish team which once sorted our caffeine fixes so well. Would anyone remember Michal, the skinny type with a Master's degree in Economics? Or Adam, a moustached Warsaw native, likewise highly educated and working at Starbucks to finance his brand new house? Or Gosia, the polyglot lady fluent in Polish, Russian, French, English and Turkish? Perhaps one would also remember Camilla, an exotic Brazilian lady adding a bit of flavour to the otherwise homogenous Polish crowd. I am grateful to you all! Many a time did I run downstairs to Starbucks for a bit of human touch – a drastic change from the stress-soaked environment just five floors above. The team welcomed me. I have to admit that there were very few times when I actually had to pay for my coffee, especially in the hours of complete stress and misery. Seriously, guys, I don't know how I would have coped without you.
There was also Amanda, the PA of one of the most senior guys UBS 2FA offices have ever housed. I doubt anyone could beat Amanda when it came to positive load. She was smiling ceaselessly from morning till 5pm (secretaries' leaving time), chirping on about every possible topic my girlie mind was deprived of. Babies’ clothes, cute teapots, flower-scented perfumes, sweet champagne, The Sound of Music – there was no stopping her. The angel of a lady, she saved me fruit from her boss's plate on the days the gentleman decided not to show up. Then once, on the UBS Christmas Party night, I barely managed to escape work, failed to get an allocated cab to the venue, was brushed aside by my so-called colleague mates – when Amanda appeared out of the blue, urging me to follow her. Suddenly I found myself in her boss's private car, driven by his personal chauffeur! I think I had never arrived to any party in such style.
Of course there were also countless other secretaries. Though technically not part of our support staff, they were notably different from the pool of bankers they did belong to. I found them such an inexhaustible source of smiles, fashion (or at least certain aspirations thereto) and femininity – in the crowd of sombre Ted Baker suits, blue shirts (pink on Fridays) and buy-2-get-1-free matching ties.
I could never forget Techie, the Filipino catering lady who distributed fruit baskets every night at 7pm. I remember her motherly grumping about eating fruit, as "it's good for you". After I had been made redundant, I bumped into Techie on my way out and delivered the fresh redundancy news. She grabbed my hand, dragged me to some room, pushed me inside and shut the door. It looked like paradise. All over the walls were cases full of biscuits. Those executive biscuits we used to nick from senior guys' plates after their secretaries would leave. Next thing I remember was Techie stuffing a bag full of those gorgeous biscuits and forcing the treasure into my arms. Good luck my girl, she said, not listening to any objections from my side. Mind you, there weren't many.
The funniest place at UBS though was our mailroom, where all business-related mail was handled. Somehow I became really good buddies with the mailroom boys, most of whom, coming from the North of England and Northern Ireland, boasted incredible sense of humour. Seriously, a trip to the mailroom was like a visit to a stand-up comedian show. Mailroom connections had a number of advantages, too. My Canadian friends may remember a DHL package for their little boy, which I duly billed to some random client (I have confessed my sins since). And would anyone recall receiving a Christmas card from me in 2007? You may want to re-check the stamp on that envelope.
There is certainly nothing wrong in making an effort to meet the people who went far in life professionally. Sometimes it is simply unavoidable, as everyone around is doing so. However, I find it highly unlikely that those cool people will remember you when the tide turns against them. They'll be busy saving their own necks and will not think twice of leaving you to drown overboard. And it is those few remarkably real, simple people that I am grateful to for surviving two years of my life as an investment banker – the people who never compromised their humanity.
I bumped into my former boss the other day. He looked right through me. And I don't think it was my new hairstyle that stopped him from recognising me.
Friday, 8 May 2009
Unemployed in London, or My worst ever interview
This post will be a nice continuation to that dodgy Athenian interview experience described in the previous one.
The beginning of 2009 saw me seriously disappointed with job opportunities so obviously non-existent in Athens. After an idyllic one-week holiday in Austria, I flew to Riga and finally revealed all the cards to myself. The picture didn't look good. The only job offer I had in Athens was not really an offer at all; it was a vague promise hanging on the cliff, not substantiated by any hard-line commitments. After a string of unprofessional interviews in Greece (http://anjci.blogspot.com/2009/05/job-search-in-athens-truth-revealed.html), I was largely fed up and needed a change – a change back to the reality that I knew.
The dilemma I was facing was an interesting one. On one hand, I could hope that the amorphous Greek offer would lead to something more than just wishful thinking, and hang around Greece in the meantime. Blue-sky scenario would see me getting that job and setting my foot firmly in Athens. Things would perhaps be just fine then. A more realistic scenario would probably see me waiting for a few months, responseless, and then having to decide on an alternative living location.
On the other hand, I could leave Greece immediately and look for job options elsewhere, London being an obvious first preference. The thought of returning to London echoed painfully in my heart. Man, did I miss the place, with its countless cultural events, pedestrian-friendly culture, round-the-world flight connections, half of my friends based there, and the other half regularly passing through. I knew it instantly. I had to return.
Timing was clearly the tricky part. It was the peak of the financial crisis, my friends being laid off left and right. I figured that looking for a job in these market conditions would not all be smooth and rosy, but decided to give it a try, anyway (I am an optimist at heart). Following the paved old route, I opened www.efinancialcareers.com for the first time in eight months and typed "Utilities Analyst" (keywords by which I proudly sell myself) into search. To my utter surprise, a few results popped up. Indeed, someone out there was looking for M&A Analysts specialised in Utilities. The first feasibility check was passed.
I had a week-long trip to London planned at the end of January, which I had originally arranged as my last major getaway before hitting full-time work in Greece. Deciding to combine pleasure with business, I scheduled a few interviews in London. It was surprisingly easy. I guess my sector hadn't quite died out yet to the extent that others had. "Lucky," I kept thinking, "Let's see what happens."
The first couple of interviews were bland at most. I understood that many companies were meeting candidates purely opportunistically, not really hoping to hire but rather screening the market, especially in specialised sectors like mine. I was walking out of another such flavourless interview when my headhunter called. Would I be interested in attending an interview with a super-exciting, small Utilities and Infrastructure private equity fund, she asked. They had just called her, singing praises to my CV and unquestionably interested in seeing the candidate in person. A 30-minute meeting. Just to chat with one of the guys as a first introduction. Would I be available immediately, by the way?
Why not, I thought. It was Friday afternoon; having finished the mandatory "business" part of my stay in London, I was hoping to proceed to that of "pleasure". By what it looked to me, a 30-minute interview would not disrupt the process too much. I could attend the interview, then meet one friend for coffee, then join a mate for Greek Bankers' drinks, then pick up yet another friend from the train station. It would surely all cling neatly together.
Unfortunately, someone up there had other plans. As soon as I had entered the interview room, I could smell trouble in the air. The guy, a Barcelona native, greeted me with a distinct insanity spark in his eyes. I thanked the skies that the episode would indeed only last for half an hour.
What followed afterwards could best be described as a mental rape. The guy (let's call him Jose) began the interview by looking at me for at least five minutes, in utter silence. He then cast a look at my CV lying on the table in front of him and said, Wow. What a great CV. So I think I am such a good candidate, right. Would I be up for a small testing session? Trembling deep inside, I smiled as I agreed. I mean, I had been kicked face in the mud many times at job interviews before. The guy was just a Catalan weirdo. I could surely confront someone like him without risking my nerval stability too much.
Before proceeding to the promised session, Jose made sure to go through every bullet point on my CV, checking all the dates and interrogating me on any overlaps. How could I do an internship there if I was a student at another place? How is it possible to be in Helsinki and Frankfurt at the same time? Am I a sort of a wizard, or spend half of my time flying across countries? It took me a bit of effort to remain polite as I explained that, for example, I never ceased to be enrolled at my graduate school in Helsinki while doing traineeships in London and Frankfurt. I returned to Helsinki afterwards to finish my studies. I actually FINISHED my studies, and that's what perhaps he should really care about?
We then went through a series of questions with varying degrees of ridiculosity. First, he asked me why I had been laid off from UBS. Any such question is wrong in the core. No redundancy justification ever goes beyond the generics such as "unfavourable market conditions", "cost-cutting" or "difficult times". Redundancies are not personal – at least theoretically. Jose, however, exploded when I tried to lay it out to him. I must be concealing something, he retorted. They would never fire a good employee. There must be something wrong with me. Would I please admit it, or will he have to call around a few people?
Another question was why I would like to work specifically for their glorious fund. There is nothing wrong with this question in principle, except for the fact (which Jose was perfectly aware of) that it was a last-minute interview arranged through a headhunter, not a personal application from my side. I hardly had time to check any factual information about the company. The reason I came to the interview – so I thought – was a first introduction alone. It looked like however, I was expected to come up with a monstrous story how I had spent my childhood days dreaming of their fund. Given the circumstances, would that not be pure-form hypocrisy? Would Jose prefer to hear outright lies from me rather than an honest answer that their fund is in line with my general expectations from an employer, hence my presence there in front of him? I had never seen anyone so visibly disappointed. "You are not sure what you are looking for in life, are you," he concluded dramatically. "Most people your age are". "Or they just make a good impression that they are?" I suggested. Jose looked shocked. I dared talk back to him. Mistake.
To kill the matters completely, Jose asked me to my face which other interviews I was attending. I have not been in this market for too long, but such practice is simply unthought-of. There is a certain ethic which firmly disallows interviewers to push for exact details of other possible processes an interviewee might be running. Everyone exaggerates; everyone tries to seem more attractive; everyone makes an impression of being sought after. Apply your best judgement in deciding how much of what you hear is true. Asking for names of people who interviewed you and at which companies is not acceptable, full stop. Jose was raging. The Latvian chica in front of him was being hugely uncooperative.
How about the test, then, he asked. You like finance, do you? Let's see how you really like finance. Looking straight into my eyes, he started shooting questions at me, at the rate of five per minute. I suddenly felt bored and tired. I was being asked for headline interest rates in all major economies and a few economies best classified as minor. I had missed the US Fed rate by half a percentage point. Jose was thriving; he caught me. He went on to ask me about countless exchange rates. For the EUR/GBP, I said 1.10, and, oops, it was 1.08. I then had some hardcore finance terminology thrown at me, detailed definitions duly ordered. I dared suggest that the real wisdom lies not in knowing every definition by heart; it is rather to know where to find it. Again, wrong tactics. A good candidate should know these things, and could I please not talk back to him and focus on the questions instead.
At this stage, I had suddenly realised that the promised 30 minutes had well stretched into 90. I felt panic. A friend was meant to be waiting for me just round the corner. As Jose popped out of the room, I rushed for the mobile. It was blinking furiously inside my bag, with several missed calls and about a dozen of unanswered messages. I had barely managed to send a desperate "save me" response to the friend waiting, when my torturer returned, this time reinforced by two of his colleagues. They entered the room and locked the door behind them.
I have a very blurred recollection of what followed. In an attempt to maintain some degree of sanity and a cheerful smile on my face, I could not focus on much else. I was asked more questions. Very specific finance theory, statistical tasks involving normal and lognormal distributions, interest payment calculations, logical tests, more terminology, political analyses from Russia to Zimbabwe, exact formulas from physics (not sure how velocity and time exercises are relevant for finance, are you?), etc. There just didn't seem an end to it. Questions were fired from three fronts in remarkably maintained succession. I could hardly keep up with where to look at any given second. My heart was jumping up and down. I kept thinking, patience. A moment will come when it will all be over.
A full other hour had passed. I was wondering if my friend was still waiting. I hadn't seen him for almost six years and was looking forward to it. Imagining the guy drinking coffee alone, I suddenly felt a massive urge to jump on Jose, grab his throat and then go for the eyes. Another torturer looked Indian. I am not a racist, but, at that moment, I really was. I hated his accent even more than his bronze skin and little porky eyes. The third guy was English and notably interested in Latvian economy. Bastard, I thought. Probably one of those British staggers who invade Riga every weekend, get entirely pissed and wet themselves on our national monuments. I was clearly beginning to lose ground. Another few moments, and I would have cracked.
But God suddenly heard my prayers. It was over in a flash. The door opened, and light came streaming inside the room. I was being let go. I saw three hands stretched towards me, stepped over myself, shook them, and rushed outside. "You know,” Jose said as he saw me out, "You are the first one. The first one who didn’t cry."
I wasn't sure whether to take it as a compliment. The energy I had left was not enough even to smile.
A few days later, I got feedback from the headhunter. The company apparently "found it odd" that I had no clue why UBS laid me off. I put "little effort" into answering test questions (was I supposed to hit my head on the wall?). Finally, I had reportedly made a shocking statement that the people who claim to know what they want in life are "simply faking!" (I thought I had used slightly different language?). I was therefore not being hired.
This time I had all the energy I needed to smile. Smile for the fact that I would never have to work for those guys. Ever.
The beginning of 2009 saw me seriously disappointed with job opportunities so obviously non-existent in Athens. After an idyllic one-week holiday in Austria, I flew to Riga and finally revealed all the cards to myself. The picture didn't look good. The only job offer I had in Athens was not really an offer at all; it was a vague promise hanging on the cliff, not substantiated by any hard-line commitments. After a string of unprofessional interviews in Greece (http://anjci.blogspot.com/2009/05/job-search-in-athens-truth-revealed.html), I was largely fed up and needed a change – a change back to the reality that I knew.
The dilemma I was facing was an interesting one. On one hand, I could hope that the amorphous Greek offer would lead to something more than just wishful thinking, and hang around Greece in the meantime. Blue-sky scenario would see me getting that job and setting my foot firmly in Athens. Things would perhaps be just fine then. A more realistic scenario would probably see me waiting for a few months, responseless, and then having to decide on an alternative living location.
On the other hand, I could leave Greece immediately and look for job options elsewhere, London being an obvious first preference. The thought of returning to London echoed painfully in my heart. Man, did I miss the place, with its countless cultural events, pedestrian-friendly culture, round-the-world flight connections, half of my friends based there, and the other half regularly passing through. I knew it instantly. I had to return.
Timing was clearly the tricky part. It was the peak of the financial crisis, my friends being laid off left and right. I figured that looking for a job in these market conditions would not all be smooth and rosy, but decided to give it a try, anyway (I am an optimist at heart). Following the paved old route, I opened www.efinancialcareers.com for the first time in eight months and typed "Utilities Analyst" (keywords by which I proudly sell myself) into search. To my utter surprise, a few results popped up. Indeed, someone out there was looking for M&A Analysts specialised in Utilities. The first feasibility check was passed.
I had a week-long trip to London planned at the end of January, which I had originally arranged as my last major getaway before hitting full-time work in Greece. Deciding to combine pleasure with business, I scheduled a few interviews in London. It was surprisingly easy. I guess my sector hadn't quite died out yet to the extent that others had. "Lucky," I kept thinking, "Let's see what happens."
The first couple of interviews were bland at most. I understood that many companies were meeting candidates purely opportunistically, not really hoping to hire but rather screening the market, especially in specialised sectors like mine. I was walking out of another such flavourless interview when my headhunter called. Would I be interested in attending an interview with a super-exciting, small Utilities and Infrastructure private equity fund, she asked. They had just called her, singing praises to my CV and unquestionably interested in seeing the candidate in person. A 30-minute meeting. Just to chat with one of the guys as a first introduction. Would I be available immediately, by the way?
Why not, I thought. It was Friday afternoon; having finished the mandatory "business" part of my stay in London, I was hoping to proceed to that of "pleasure". By what it looked to me, a 30-minute interview would not disrupt the process too much. I could attend the interview, then meet one friend for coffee, then join a mate for Greek Bankers' drinks, then pick up yet another friend from the train station. It would surely all cling neatly together.
Unfortunately, someone up there had other plans. As soon as I had entered the interview room, I could smell trouble in the air. The guy, a Barcelona native, greeted me with a distinct insanity spark in his eyes. I thanked the skies that the episode would indeed only last for half an hour.
What followed afterwards could best be described as a mental rape. The guy (let's call him Jose) began the interview by looking at me for at least five minutes, in utter silence. He then cast a look at my CV lying on the table in front of him and said, Wow. What a great CV. So I think I am such a good candidate, right. Would I be up for a small testing session? Trembling deep inside, I smiled as I agreed. I mean, I had been kicked face in the mud many times at job interviews before. The guy was just a Catalan weirdo. I could surely confront someone like him without risking my nerval stability too much.
Before proceeding to the promised session, Jose made sure to go through every bullet point on my CV, checking all the dates and interrogating me on any overlaps. How could I do an internship there if I was a student at another place? How is it possible to be in Helsinki and Frankfurt at the same time? Am I a sort of a wizard, or spend half of my time flying across countries? It took me a bit of effort to remain polite as I explained that, for example, I never ceased to be enrolled at my graduate school in Helsinki while doing traineeships in London and Frankfurt. I returned to Helsinki afterwards to finish my studies. I actually FINISHED my studies, and that's what perhaps he should really care about?
We then went through a series of questions with varying degrees of ridiculosity. First, he asked me why I had been laid off from UBS. Any such question is wrong in the core. No redundancy justification ever goes beyond the generics such as "unfavourable market conditions", "cost-cutting" or "difficult times". Redundancies are not personal – at least theoretically. Jose, however, exploded when I tried to lay it out to him. I must be concealing something, he retorted. They would never fire a good employee. There must be something wrong with me. Would I please admit it, or will he have to call around a few people?
Another question was why I would like to work specifically for their glorious fund. There is nothing wrong with this question in principle, except for the fact (which Jose was perfectly aware of) that it was a last-minute interview arranged through a headhunter, not a personal application from my side. I hardly had time to check any factual information about the company. The reason I came to the interview – so I thought – was a first introduction alone. It looked like however, I was expected to come up with a monstrous story how I had spent my childhood days dreaming of their fund. Given the circumstances, would that not be pure-form hypocrisy? Would Jose prefer to hear outright lies from me rather than an honest answer that their fund is in line with my general expectations from an employer, hence my presence there in front of him? I had never seen anyone so visibly disappointed. "You are not sure what you are looking for in life, are you," he concluded dramatically. "Most people your age are". "Or they just make a good impression that they are?" I suggested. Jose looked shocked. I dared talk back to him. Mistake.
To kill the matters completely, Jose asked me to my face which other interviews I was attending. I have not been in this market for too long, but such practice is simply unthought-of. There is a certain ethic which firmly disallows interviewers to push for exact details of other possible processes an interviewee might be running. Everyone exaggerates; everyone tries to seem more attractive; everyone makes an impression of being sought after. Apply your best judgement in deciding how much of what you hear is true. Asking for names of people who interviewed you and at which companies is not acceptable, full stop. Jose was raging. The Latvian chica in front of him was being hugely uncooperative.
How about the test, then, he asked. You like finance, do you? Let's see how you really like finance. Looking straight into my eyes, he started shooting questions at me, at the rate of five per minute. I suddenly felt bored and tired. I was being asked for headline interest rates in all major economies and a few economies best classified as minor. I had missed the US Fed rate by half a percentage point. Jose was thriving; he caught me. He went on to ask me about countless exchange rates. For the EUR/GBP, I said 1.10, and, oops, it was 1.08. I then had some hardcore finance terminology thrown at me, detailed definitions duly ordered. I dared suggest that the real wisdom lies not in knowing every definition by heart; it is rather to know where to find it. Again, wrong tactics. A good candidate should know these things, and could I please not talk back to him and focus on the questions instead.
At this stage, I had suddenly realised that the promised 30 minutes had well stretched into 90. I felt panic. A friend was meant to be waiting for me just round the corner. As Jose popped out of the room, I rushed for the mobile. It was blinking furiously inside my bag, with several missed calls and about a dozen of unanswered messages. I had barely managed to send a desperate "save me" response to the friend waiting, when my torturer returned, this time reinforced by two of his colleagues. They entered the room and locked the door behind them.
I have a very blurred recollection of what followed. In an attempt to maintain some degree of sanity and a cheerful smile on my face, I could not focus on much else. I was asked more questions. Very specific finance theory, statistical tasks involving normal and lognormal distributions, interest payment calculations, logical tests, more terminology, political analyses from Russia to Zimbabwe, exact formulas from physics (not sure how velocity and time exercises are relevant for finance, are you?), etc. There just didn't seem an end to it. Questions were fired from three fronts in remarkably maintained succession. I could hardly keep up with where to look at any given second. My heart was jumping up and down. I kept thinking, patience. A moment will come when it will all be over.
A full other hour had passed. I was wondering if my friend was still waiting. I hadn't seen him for almost six years and was looking forward to it. Imagining the guy drinking coffee alone, I suddenly felt a massive urge to jump on Jose, grab his throat and then go for the eyes. Another torturer looked Indian. I am not a racist, but, at that moment, I really was. I hated his accent even more than his bronze skin and little porky eyes. The third guy was English and notably interested in Latvian economy. Bastard, I thought. Probably one of those British staggers who invade Riga every weekend, get entirely pissed and wet themselves on our national monuments. I was clearly beginning to lose ground. Another few moments, and I would have cracked.
But God suddenly heard my prayers. It was over in a flash. The door opened, and light came streaming inside the room. I was being let go. I saw three hands stretched towards me, stepped over myself, shook them, and rushed outside. "You know,” Jose said as he saw me out, "You are the first one. The first one who didn’t cry."
I wasn't sure whether to take it as a compliment. The energy I had left was not enough even to smile.
A few days later, I got feedback from the headhunter. The company apparently "found it odd" that I had no clue why UBS laid me off. I put "little effort" into answering test questions (was I supposed to hit my head on the wall?). Finally, I had reportedly made a shocking statement that the people who claim to know what they want in life are "simply faking!" (I thought I had used slightly different language?). I was therefore not being hired.
This time I had all the energy I needed to smile. Smile for the fact that I would never have to work for those guys. Ever.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
Job search in Athens: The truth revealed
It was a crazy idea from the start.
Here I was in mid 2008 - a 24-year-old female; two years of full-time investment banking experience and a handful of internships; fluent in Russian, Latvian, English and, historically, German and Swedish (there are living witnesses); with existing job offers spanning from Riga and Moscow to Stockholm and Frankfurt; freshly made redundant from a sinking ship of an investment bank. In a nutshell, quite a package.
The most prudent decision, both career- and money-wise, was Moscow. I would be joining Russia's leading investment bank, with an outstanding domestic and CIS-wide platform, blah-blah-blah, a guaranteed annual package of over US$200k, and they all would live happily ever after. Or I could move to culturally inspired Stockholm to join the country's oldest private bank and spend those dark winter nights improving my Swedish. I could also go for the Frankfurt option and resume my regular Sunday afternoon's dancing-under-skyscrapers (there's nothing else to do in Frankfurt on a Sunday). I could also stay in London and look for job opportunities, which, at the time, were still available. Finally, at the end of the day, I always had the black-sky scenario to return to Riga. But I really wasn't quite THAT desperate yet.
And the winner is...
I applied my best female logic and decided to move to... Greece. I mean, the summer was on the horizon. My last year's bonus was firmly deposited at the UK's stronghold of a bank - in pounds, the world's most stable and reliable currency (right?). I could produce reasonable conversational Greek and knew more Greek songs by heart than most natives could ever dream of. Finally, I had just met what I thought was the love of my life - a Greek, of course. The choice was clearly a no-brainer. Greece, baby. Like here, nowhere.
The summer went by (as amazing as it was, it is not the topic of the current post). The pound losing value against the euro quicker than you could say "depreciation", I slowly came to face the music. Life without work was great up to a point. I loved travelling around a jewel of a country, spending hours in the coolest Athenian gym, cooking exuberant Greek dishes, being taken out for coffee in full glory of the Acropolis, and editing my photos to mind's utter delight. But I felt something was missing. Something to define my life professionally; something to wake up in the morning for, broad smile shining on my face. Not to mention that my money reserves were anything but growing, either.
Let the job search begin
A job in Athens, initially only a possibility, suddenly seemed like an extremely good idea. Armed with those few Greek connections that I had, some groovy banking experience imported from London - and plenty of humour - I began my job search.
My first set of interviews was with a start-up M&A boutique where one of my connections was now working. I cannot say I was impressed. The company seemed to lack the focus somewhat, and generally made an impression of a risky affair. Working hours sounded very similar to pure-form investment banking I had just escaped from. On top of it all, my connection used to be a very close friend indeed, and I just wasn't sure that having him as my senior would be a fantastic idea. I got a firm offer and disappointed everyone in the company (they visibly loved me) by an equally firm refusal.
The next interview, arranged through a headhunter friend, was with a rather respectable real estate advisory firm. I met a few people (all Greeks, coming to see me ena-ena in a bit of a zoo-like fashion). My main problem was the lack of interest in real estate (my heart is forever with power) and poor familiarity with the sector (which I tried to fake, unsuccessfully). The company kept me on the edge on my seat for about a month, and finally got back with apologies, but due to unstable market conditions they were holding off on hiring, etc. They would call me in a couple of months, perhaps. Uh huh, sure.
That's where it all got more interesting
It was a good thing I had been saving my sense of humour until then, as I would need it big time for the interviews that followed. The company was a Southeastern Europe focused private equity / real estate advisory with head office in Athens and a few regional bases outside Greece. The guys had seen my CV beforehand. Yet their first question, as I had literally put my foot through the door, was whether I spoke... Serbian. I was frantically trying to remember if I had put Serbian in my CV by mistake? Or perhaps I was expected to list the languages I DID NOT speak in addition to those that I did? Confused, I admitted no knowledge of Serbian whatsoever* - unless, of course, we could count my humble singing of Gibonni's songs (in Croatian) in the shower as a sort of language proficiency? It's the same language anyway. Right?
They didn't look convinced and instead asked me the next question.
"How long do you think it will take you to learn Serbian?"
I was tempted to look at my watch. Were the guys expecting me to come up with a deadline, on which we would later reconvene for a language quiz, or something? Deep inside, I was hoping this was all a joke. I smiled and said I had no plans as yet to learn Serbian, unless I had a very good reason to do so.
The guys looked unimpressed. And how long would I take to learn Bulgarian, they asked. Bulgarian? Was I supposed to tell the complexity between the two Slavic languages involved? On first thought, I would imagine Bulgarian was easier to learn than Serbian, as it was more similar to Russian. However, unlike Serbian, Bulgarian has one weird archaic Cyrillic character that I find terribly confusing. In addition, I had already brought my Serbo-Croatian to some kind of basic level thanks to my passion for the songs from former Yugoslavia. I could even pronounce "kad pukne na dva dijela nije vrijedno, jer više ne kuca ko jedno" without missing a beat.
In short, confused for the rest of the interview, I continued a mental comparison of Serbian and Bulgarian, wondering why anyone would invite a native Russian speaker to an interview while what they really needed was a Serb.
One last try
Not yet discouraged by those few fiascos, I accepted another interview invitation, again with a real estate advisory firm. If you think my previous experiences were completely non-conventional, behold. I showed up, pampered and polished from head to toes and with my arsenal of financial knowledge duly refreshed. This time I was going to be successful at faking real estate sector expertise.
Sadly, I needed none of that. I was invited straight through to the boss's office (!), seated in a leather chair double the size of myself and introduced to the CEO himself - a small elderly grey-haired gentleman. After casting a quick look at my legs, he announced that I was "a very strong candidate indeed", picked up his phone and started calling his senior banker friends to help a "very good lady" with a job. One of the friends sounded like a distant "connection's connection" from London. We agreed to meet within a couple of days to chat about the Greek job market. The CEO then gave me his number, urging to call him "absolutely anytime". The entire process barely lasted ten minutes.
A few days later, I met my new connection; let's call him Kostas. I asked for some job search tips. The word "tips" made Kostas laugh. “Oh you would like a tip, would you,” he said, “Be careful with that CEO guy.” To my legitimate question why, he hesitated for a while and then showered me with gossip. Did I know that the guy was 65, had changed a handful of wives, held a harem of lovers, and that his 25-year-old wife was now pregnant? “So you really wanna be careful with that CEO guy,” he said again, "Especially if you're a... (here he paused) woman kinda thing".
At that point, I really didn't want to know anything else about the Greek job market. I made a few final conscience-clearing attempts to get a job and fled the country shortly afterwards, back to the familiar shores of London.
Next time I'll think twice before relying on that female logic of mine.
-----------------
*Author's note: in a fashion most ironic, I actually did learn Serbian later - though for a different reason.
Here I was in mid 2008 - a 24-year-old female; two years of full-time investment banking experience and a handful of internships; fluent in Russian, Latvian, English and, historically, German and Swedish (there are living witnesses); with existing job offers spanning from Riga and Moscow to Stockholm and Frankfurt; freshly made redundant from a sinking ship of an investment bank. In a nutshell, quite a package.
The most prudent decision, both career- and money-wise, was Moscow. I would be joining Russia's leading investment bank, with an outstanding domestic and CIS-wide platform, blah-blah-blah, a guaranteed annual package of over US$200k, and they all would live happily ever after. Or I could move to culturally inspired Stockholm to join the country's oldest private bank and spend those dark winter nights improving my Swedish. I could also go for the Frankfurt option and resume my regular Sunday afternoon's dancing-under-skyscrapers (there's nothing else to do in Frankfurt on a Sunday). I could also stay in London and look for job opportunities, which, at the time, were still available. Finally, at the end of the day, I always had the black-sky scenario to return to Riga. But I really wasn't quite THAT desperate yet.
And the winner is...
I applied my best female logic and decided to move to... Greece. I mean, the summer was on the horizon. My last year's bonus was firmly deposited at the UK's stronghold of a bank - in pounds, the world's most stable and reliable currency (right?). I could produce reasonable conversational Greek and knew more Greek songs by heart than most natives could ever dream of. Finally, I had just met what I thought was the love of my life - a Greek, of course. The choice was clearly a no-brainer. Greece, baby. Like here, nowhere.
The summer went by (as amazing as it was, it is not the topic of the current post). The pound losing value against the euro quicker than you could say "depreciation", I slowly came to face the music. Life without work was great up to a point. I loved travelling around a jewel of a country, spending hours in the coolest Athenian gym, cooking exuberant Greek dishes, being taken out for coffee in full glory of the Acropolis, and editing my photos to mind's utter delight. But I felt something was missing. Something to define my life professionally; something to wake up in the morning for, broad smile shining on my face. Not to mention that my money reserves were anything but growing, either.
Let the job search begin
A job in Athens, initially only a possibility, suddenly seemed like an extremely good idea. Armed with those few Greek connections that I had, some groovy banking experience imported from London - and plenty of humour - I began my job search.
My first set of interviews was with a start-up M&A boutique where one of my connections was now working. I cannot say I was impressed. The company seemed to lack the focus somewhat, and generally made an impression of a risky affair. Working hours sounded very similar to pure-form investment banking I had just escaped from. On top of it all, my connection used to be a very close friend indeed, and I just wasn't sure that having him as my senior would be a fantastic idea. I got a firm offer and disappointed everyone in the company (they visibly loved me) by an equally firm refusal.
The next interview, arranged through a headhunter friend, was with a rather respectable real estate advisory firm. I met a few people (all Greeks, coming to see me ena-ena in a bit of a zoo-like fashion). My main problem was the lack of interest in real estate (my heart is forever with power) and poor familiarity with the sector (which I tried to fake, unsuccessfully). The company kept me on the edge on my seat for about a month, and finally got back with apologies, but due to unstable market conditions they were holding off on hiring, etc. They would call me in a couple of months, perhaps. Uh huh, sure.
That's where it all got more interesting
It was a good thing I had been saving my sense of humour until then, as I would need it big time for the interviews that followed. The company was a Southeastern Europe focused private equity / real estate advisory with head office in Athens and a few regional bases outside Greece. The guys had seen my CV beforehand. Yet their first question, as I had literally put my foot through the door, was whether I spoke... Serbian. I was frantically trying to remember if I had put Serbian in my CV by mistake? Or perhaps I was expected to list the languages I DID NOT speak in addition to those that I did? Confused, I admitted no knowledge of Serbian whatsoever* - unless, of course, we could count my humble singing of Gibonni's songs (in Croatian) in the shower as a sort of language proficiency? It's the same language anyway. Right?
They didn't look convinced and instead asked me the next question.
"How long do you think it will take you to learn Serbian?"
I was tempted to look at my watch. Were the guys expecting me to come up with a deadline, on which we would later reconvene for a language quiz, or something? Deep inside, I was hoping this was all a joke. I smiled and said I had no plans as yet to learn Serbian, unless I had a very good reason to do so.
The guys looked unimpressed. And how long would I take to learn Bulgarian, they asked. Bulgarian? Was I supposed to tell the complexity between the two Slavic languages involved? On first thought, I would imagine Bulgarian was easier to learn than Serbian, as it was more similar to Russian. However, unlike Serbian, Bulgarian has one weird archaic Cyrillic character that I find terribly confusing. In addition, I had already brought my Serbo-Croatian to some kind of basic level thanks to my passion for the songs from former Yugoslavia. I could even pronounce "kad pukne na dva dijela nije vrijedno, jer više ne kuca ko jedno" without missing a beat.
In short, confused for the rest of the interview, I continued a mental comparison of Serbian and Bulgarian, wondering why anyone would invite a native Russian speaker to an interview while what they really needed was a Serb.
One last try
Not yet discouraged by those few fiascos, I accepted another interview invitation, again with a real estate advisory firm. If you think my previous experiences were completely non-conventional, behold. I showed up, pampered and polished from head to toes and with my arsenal of financial knowledge duly refreshed. This time I was going to be successful at faking real estate sector expertise.
Sadly, I needed none of that. I was invited straight through to the boss's office (!), seated in a leather chair double the size of myself and introduced to the CEO himself - a small elderly grey-haired gentleman. After casting a quick look at my legs, he announced that I was "a very strong candidate indeed", picked up his phone and started calling his senior banker friends to help a "very good lady" with a job. One of the friends sounded like a distant "connection's connection" from London. We agreed to meet within a couple of days to chat about the Greek job market. The CEO then gave me his number, urging to call him "absolutely anytime". The entire process barely lasted ten minutes.
A few days later, I met my new connection; let's call him Kostas. I asked for some job search tips. The word "tips" made Kostas laugh. “Oh you would like a tip, would you,” he said, “Be careful with that CEO guy.” To my legitimate question why, he hesitated for a while and then showered me with gossip. Did I know that the guy was 65, had changed a handful of wives, held a harem of lovers, and that his 25-year-old wife was now pregnant? “So you really wanna be careful with that CEO guy,” he said again, "Especially if you're a... (here he paused) woman kinda thing".
At that point, I really didn't want to know anything else about the Greek job market. I made a few final conscience-clearing attempts to get a job and fled the country shortly afterwards, back to the familiar shores of London.
Next time I'll think twice before relying on that female logic of mine.
*Author's note: in a fashion most ironic, I actually did learn Serbian later - though for a different reason.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
A story of a Portuguese "gentleman", or how not to date a girl
We met on the Madrid - London flight two years ago.
I was returning from a two-week backpacking tour of Morocco; he had just finished another routine business trip to Spain. I was running massively late for the plane and had to resort to a middle seat; walked over to one and asked a gentleman next to the window if the middle seat was free, in the best Spanish I could produce. It was. I collapsed into the seat immediately and went into a kind of a coma.
My subsequent post-coma behaviour was admittedly rather small-talk inducing. After clicking through some 800 Moroccan pictures on my small-handbag-unfriendly camera, I unearthed a 30Gb-worth ipod collection of Greek songs. My every action was followed closely by that mysterious window-seated gentleman. As long as I didn’t have to talk, I had no problem with being found fascinating. It goes without saying that, having just spent a fortnight killing myself with a tense dawn-to-dusk Moroccan survival camp - and, on top of it all, flying bottom-rock Economy - I was largely uninterested in small talk, especially with a complete stranger.
Unfortunately, my neighbour was. In a rather predictable fashion, he waited until captain's weather announcement (the only bit of the heavily Spanish-accented speech I could vaguely understand) and said something like "oh, London, rain again". A classic. When someone bothers to address you directly, it is kind of impolite to continue playing with your ipod and ignore the person. I therefore had to interrupt my musical journey through Greece and act at least marginally interested in what my neighbour was saying. He turned out not boring at all. Let's call him Rui; he was Portuguese and a Vice President at a leading Telecommunications consultancy. My first thought (I bet yours, too) was what the heck a Vice President of a leading Telecoms consultancy was doing next to a scruffy backpacker on an Economy Iberia flight. I was thick enough to put my thoughts into words (to give me credit, phrased in a most politically correct way). Rui laughed. His company had the policy of flying Economy class on short-haul flights and Business class across the Atlantic. I was notably impressed. At my then employer, UBS, analysts routinely flew Business on all possible flights, including London to Manchester, Amen. Here I was facing a Vice President, grinning as he clutched his uncool Economy ticket. Respect, I thought. Here's my man. He wasn't particularly good-looking, but that didn't matter too much.
The small talk went on. To my utter surprise, the gentleman did not seem put-off by my suppressed investment-banking-analyst identity. I was kind of used to lowering my voice when delivering my professional background, both to prospective men and the non-hopefuls. I mean, what kind of a guy would want his lady to get stuck at work till past midnight on a daily basis, and then show up, looking blood-shot eyed and unfit, stuffed to her ears with junk food and generally as attractive as a lamp post, just without the energy? It was refreshing to see an interesting gentleman not remotely stirred by the sad truth of my existence. We exchanged numbers and bid each other farewell by the airport luggage reclaim.
…He called the same week, suggesting a Saturday lunch. Not having had a decent date with a guy for quite a while (see: http://anjci.blogspot.com/2009/04/so-what-has-changed.html), I was impressed once again. The proposed venue was Indigo: http://www.onealdwych.com/, a pretty little hotel restaurant bang in the heart of London. Excellent choice, I thought. Man, did I look forward to that lunch.
Things went well that day. The food was fine; nothing quite to lick the fingers for but the wine, Chilean white, fully compensated. My conversationalist seemed very professional at his job and prudent in his approach to life; liked good Portuguese football; knew which wine adds which flavours of appreciation to which food; and had a few connections among my banking friends. I had to work (on a Saturday!) afterwards, but it was with a happy heart that I returned to the office that day.
Our next date was a dinner at Gaucho's Sloane: http://www.gauchorestaurants.co.uk/restaurants/restaurant.php?id=sloane. This time the experience wasn't quite as rosy. Rui seemed nervous, which I knowledgeably blamed on work-related stress. In addition to dictating my meal choice (which, fair enough, guys need to be allowed to do on a purely occasional basis) and forgetting to ask if I wanted bread (before sending a full basket back to the kitchen), he visibly cheaped off, cringed towards me and asked if I "really wanted wine". Priding myself on my non-fussy-diner-woman reputation (with the right guy, even Pizza Express is rock ‘n' roll), I shrugged it off. Of course, not, I said. I mean, when you are having a fine Argentinean steak, having Argentinean wine to accompany it would surely be gross overindulgence. In addition to imposing dry law in a truly dictatorial manner, my neighbour spent the rest of the evening moaning about work and consequently apologising for "being a bum". Frankly, he was. At least he had decency enough to pay.
Life went on; I got dragged into a killer project at work and was pretty much welcoming every sunrise from the office window (at least I could see one from where I was sitting). My love life was assigned last-degree priority, but I did miss the travels. Defying the entire thy-shalt-not-book-weekends-away-before-asking-thy-master concept, I unilaterally decided to spend a weekend in Lisbon. Just on my own, blackberry turned off and swine-like banking males left behind in London. I was stupid enough to deliver the happy news to Rui, after which it of course "just happened”, that he would be in Lisbon that weekend, too. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and accepted the fact.
…Rui picked me up from Lisbon airport that night, and off we set for a simple fish dinner at a traditional Portuguese place. The fish was gorgeous until the point when Rui smiled at me apologetically and suggested to "go Dutch". Are you familiar with the expression? Going Dutch means paying separately for oneself. I could not believe my ears. Having studied in the Nordics for over two years, I have no problem paying for my food. In fact, I prefer paying for my food as means of avoiding possible misunderstandings with men. But this was clearly not the situation. It was Rui's country; it was my first visit to Lisbon; it was his invitation; I was a woman; for God's sake, the guy was in his mid-30s and a Vice President of a respectable company - versus me, a green investment banking analyst. I swallowed. Rui seemed to take particular pride in "offering dessert" afterwards, a freshly sliced mango. To my comment that the mango was "like Heaven", he moved his thick Portuguese eyebrows in an up-and-down fashion, responding that he knew "other things, which are much more Heaven-like". No way, I thought. Man, have you just missed it.
We met again the day after. I had heard great things about the traditional Portuguese fado singing. Fado is a sort of Portuguese blues, often sung live in restaurants for spectators to enjoy. Going to Lisbon without listening to fado is like visiting Skopje and failing to see the Kale Fortress; an absolute must. But I couldn't go alone, so I asked Rui to join me - as poor as the company was menacing to be.
The evening started off on a low note. The minute Rui saw the menu, his eyes nearly fell out. So expensive, he gasped. To me, it looked an average London restaurant experience, surely in line with the two past dates we had in London. Oh, he said. He got the company to pay for our first lunch. Just told them I was a kind of client. As for the dinner, he tried but the company wouldn't pay. At least we didn't have wine, he said with relief.
Needless to say that I was speechless.
The night went on. Fado was nice, but given (a) Rui's never-ceasing moaning about prices; (b) Rui's loudly and frequently expressed disagreement with the quality of the food; and (c) Rui's discontent when I touched the bread ("they'll charge you for it!"), the evening was anything but enjoyable. At the end, came the bill. 60 euros. It was for 60 euros that I had to tolerate the company of a complete loser that evening. Need I even mention that the bill was followed by that famous "let's go Dutch" phrase? Seriously, I should have paid the guy in the beginning - just to have the pleasure of a dinner without his company!
What happened afterwards was a joke. Suddenly awaken to a gentleman's call inside him, Rui ordered a cab to drop me by my hotel. We reached the place, I waved goodbye and suddenly realised that the guy, too, was getting out of the cab. What's up, I asked. Did he suddenly fancy a walk? Rui looked a little taken aback. Oh, yes, what a lovely evening, he said. Indeed, he might as well walk to his own hotel. Enjoy your walk, I said, thinking more along the "Good riddance" lines. Off he went into the night. I was no longer surprised that a seemingly respectable professional male was single in his mid-30s. I should have known from the start that no worthy men stay single for too long.
He phoned me up several times afterwards. Would you be interested? I wasn't.
I was returning from a two-week backpacking tour of Morocco; he had just finished another routine business trip to Spain. I was running massively late for the plane and had to resort to a middle seat; walked over to one and asked a gentleman next to the window if the middle seat was free, in the best Spanish I could produce. It was. I collapsed into the seat immediately and went into a kind of a coma.
My subsequent post-coma behaviour was admittedly rather small-talk inducing. After clicking through some 800 Moroccan pictures on my small-handbag-unfriendly camera, I unearthed a 30Gb-worth ipod collection of Greek songs. My every action was followed closely by that mysterious window-seated gentleman. As long as I didn’t have to talk, I had no problem with being found fascinating. It goes without saying that, having just spent a fortnight killing myself with a tense dawn-to-dusk Moroccan survival camp - and, on top of it all, flying bottom-rock Economy - I was largely uninterested in small talk, especially with a complete stranger.
Unfortunately, my neighbour was. In a rather predictable fashion, he waited until captain's weather announcement (the only bit of the heavily Spanish-accented speech I could vaguely understand) and said something like "oh, London, rain again". A classic. When someone bothers to address you directly, it is kind of impolite to continue playing with your ipod and ignore the person. I therefore had to interrupt my musical journey through Greece and act at least marginally interested in what my neighbour was saying. He turned out not boring at all. Let's call him Rui; he was Portuguese and a Vice President at a leading Telecommunications consultancy. My first thought (I bet yours, too) was what the heck a Vice President of a leading Telecoms consultancy was doing next to a scruffy backpacker on an Economy Iberia flight. I was thick enough to put my thoughts into words (to give me credit, phrased in a most politically correct way). Rui laughed. His company had the policy of flying Economy class on short-haul flights and Business class across the Atlantic. I was notably impressed. At my then employer, UBS, analysts routinely flew Business on all possible flights, including London to Manchester, Amen. Here I was facing a Vice President, grinning as he clutched his uncool Economy ticket. Respect, I thought. Here's my man. He wasn't particularly good-looking, but that didn't matter too much.
The small talk went on. To my utter surprise, the gentleman did not seem put-off by my suppressed investment-banking-analyst identity. I was kind of used to lowering my voice when delivering my professional background, both to prospective men and the non-hopefuls. I mean, what kind of a guy would want his lady to get stuck at work till past midnight on a daily basis, and then show up, looking blood-shot eyed and unfit, stuffed to her ears with junk food and generally as attractive as a lamp post, just without the energy? It was refreshing to see an interesting gentleman not remotely stirred by the sad truth of my existence. We exchanged numbers and bid each other farewell by the airport luggage reclaim.
…He called the same week, suggesting a Saturday lunch. Not having had a decent date with a guy for quite a while (see: http://anjci.blogspot.com/2009/04/so-what-has-changed.html), I was impressed once again. The proposed venue was Indigo: http://www.onealdwych.com/, a pretty little hotel restaurant bang in the heart of London. Excellent choice, I thought. Man, did I look forward to that lunch.
Things went well that day. The food was fine; nothing quite to lick the fingers for but the wine, Chilean white, fully compensated. My conversationalist seemed very professional at his job and prudent in his approach to life; liked good Portuguese football; knew which wine adds which flavours of appreciation to which food; and had a few connections among my banking friends. I had to work (on a Saturday!) afterwards, but it was with a happy heart that I returned to the office that day.
Our next date was a dinner at Gaucho's Sloane: http://www.gauchorestaurants.co.uk/restaurants/restaurant.php?id=sloane. This time the experience wasn't quite as rosy. Rui seemed nervous, which I knowledgeably blamed on work-related stress. In addition to dictating my meal choice (which, fair enough, guys need to be allowed to do on a purely occasional basis) and forgetting to ask if I wanted bread (before sending a full basket back to the kitchen), he visibly cheaped off, cringed towards me and asked if I "really wanted wine". Priding myself on my non-fussy-diner-woman reputation (with the right guy, even Pizza Express is rock ‘n' roll), I shrugged it off. Of course, not, I said. I mean, when you are having a fine Argentinean steak, having Argentinean wine to accompany it would surely be gross overindulgence. In addition to imposing dry law in a truly dictatorial manner, my neighbour spent the rest of the evening moaning about work and consequently apologising for "being a bum". Frankly, he was. At least he had decency enough to pay.
Life went on; I got dragged into a killer project at work and was pretty much welcoming every sunrise from the office window (at least I could see one from where I was sitting). My love life was assigned last-degree priority, but I did miss the travels. Defying the entire thy-shalt-not-book-weekends-away-before-asking-thy-master concept, I unilaterally decided to spend a weekend in Lisbon. Just on my own, blackberry turned off and swine-like banking males left behind in London. I was stupid enough to deliver the happy news to Rui, after which it of course "just happened”, that he would be in Lisbon that weekend, too. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and accepted the fact.
…Rui picked me up from Lisbon airport that night, and off we set for a simple fish dinner at a traditional Portuguese place. The fish was gorgeous until the point when Rui smiled at me apologetically and suggested to "go Dutch". Are you familiar with the expression? Going Dutch means paying separately for oneself. I could not believe my ears. Having studied in the Nordics for over two years, I have no problem paying for my food. In fact, I prefer paying for my food as means of avoiding possible misunderstandings with men. But this was clearly not the situation. It was Rui's country; it was my first visit to Lisbon; it was his invitation; I was a woman; for God's sake, the guy was in his mid-30s and a Vice President of a respectable company - versus me, a green investment banking analyst. I swallowed. Rui seemed to take particular pride in "offering dessert" afterwards, a freshly sliced mango. To my comment that the mango was "like Heaven", he moved his thick Portuguese eyebrows in an up-and-down fashion, responding that he knew "other things, which are much more Heaven-like". No way, I thought. Man, have you just missed it.
We met again the day after. I had heard great things about the traditional Portuguese fado singing. Fado is a sort of Portuguese blues, often sung live in restaurants for spectators to enjoy. Going to Lisbon without listening to fado is like visiting Skopje and failing to see the Kale Fortress; an absolute must. But I couldn't go alone, so I asked Rui to join me - as poor as the company was menacing to be.
The evening started off on a low note. The minute Rui saw the menu, his eyes nearly fell out. So expensive, he gasped. To me, it looked an average London restaurant experience, surely in line with the two past dates we had in London. Oh, he said. He got the company to pay for our first lunch. Just told them I was a kind of client. As for the dinner, he tried but the company wouldn't pay. At least we didn't have wine, he said with relief.
Needless to say that I was speechless.
The night went on. Fado was nice, but given (a) Rui's never-ceasing moaning about prices; (b) Rui's loudly and frequently expressed disagreement with the quality of the food; and (c) Rui's discontent when I touched the bread ("they'll charge you for it!"), the evening was anything but enjoyable. At the end, came the bill. 60 euros. It was for 60 euros that I had to tolerate the company of a complete loser that evening. Need I even mention that the bill was followed by that famous "let's go Dutch" phrase? Seriously, I should have paid the guy in the beginning - just to have the pleasure of a dinner without his company!
What happened afterwards was a joke. Suddenly awaken to a gentleman's call inside him, Rui ordered a cab to drop me by my hotel. We reached the place, I waved goodbye and suddenly realised that the guy, too, was getting out of the cab. What's up, I asked. Did he suddenly fancy a walk? Rui looked a little taken aback. Oh, yes, what a lovely evening, he said. Indeed, he might as well walk to his own hotel. Enjoy your walk, I said, thinking more along the "Good riddance" lines. Off he went into the night. I was no longer surprised that a seemingly respectable professional male was single in his mid-30s. I should have known from the start that no worthy men stay single for too long.
He phoned me up several times afterwards. Would you be interested? I wasn't.
Friday, 1 May 2009
Me and my country obsessions
At any given point of my life, I seem to have had a crush on some European country which was not my own. I have spent the past 10-odd years embarking on new language courses, exploring yet another exotic music scene, supporting a whole rainbow of football teams, falling in love with cute foreign guys and piling up Lonely Planet guides on my bed. My friends regularly ask me how I can be so passionate about seemingly random foreign countries. Honestly, I do not have a clear answer myself; the best I can do is to summarise my country-crush history chronologically, as follows below.
In the beginning, there was Spain. USSR having freshly broken up in the early 1990s, our local television was instantly flooded up by Spanish-speaking soap operas stemming from Spain proper to Mexico to Venezuela to Brazil (the latter obviously Portuguese-speaking but I couldn't tell at the time). Spain was my first country crush. The language was something so utterly non-Slavic that I just couldn't get enough. I was too young to develop this passion in any meaningful way, though, so I resorted myself to listening to Spanish music and drawing pictures of Flamenco dancers in my Maths notebooks. Needless to say that my Maths teacher wasn't happy.
Then there was Germany. I have to mention here that my parents are the keenest supporters of winter sports ever, biathlon being a key favourite. As a mere example, my mother would rather put the family to bed unfed than miss the Russian team's shoot-out on target. My dad's Russian biathlon sympathies, however less extreme, are still impressive. Little Anna, however, was a revolutionary from the start. Instead of dancing around dressed in a Russian tricolour mini-version, I gave my heart fully and unconditionally to the German biathlon team. I am not sure why I did that - perhaps thanks to Germans' sexy, tight grey skiing suits - but the fact remains one. Do you remember Ricco Gross, Frank Luck, Sven Fischer - all rocking the Lillehammer 1994 Winter Olympics? They were my heroes. My Maths notebooks suddenly turned towards a heavy Deutsch-inspired black/red/yellow colour palette. Thinking back on the situation, I am finding it weird how a 12-year-old had the guts enough to go against her parents and her ethnic Vaterland so easily? Vaterland is a German word, by the way. There you go.
I would be lying to myself here if I failed to mention the cutest German ever in existence. Who else but Georg Hackl, 3-time Olympic and World champion luger? It was his mysterious Bavarian look that got me to pick German as my second foreign language at school. Sadly though, due to rare utilisation, my German has become rather rusty these days. I am sure that my Bavarian Prince would not have been very happy.
Still tuned onto an Anglo-Saxon frequency, I then fell in love with England, the main trigger this time being not sports but music. Mid-1990s were the heyday of so-called Britpop. I had a particular soft spot for Manchester music scene, represented but not remotely defined by the likes of The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, Inspiral Carpets, 808 State, James, The Charlatans, Oasis - as well as veterans like The Smiths, Joy Division, New Order and The Fall. Years have passed, but I can still feel my blood starting to boil at even a passing mention of Manchester. It was my unfulfilled teenage dream to visit the city. Can you believe I still haven't been? What a disgrace.
Years went by. Going through my dad's old record collection one rainy evening, I discovered some albums by U2, and a new banner rose on my horizon. The next couple of years in my life would be defined by Ireland. One clear difference from my previous country crushes was my slow, but growing, interest for history in addition to pure visual and audio material. I threw myself with passion into history books on Ireland, Northern Irish conflict, Irish geography, Irish immigration, Irish politics and everything else Irish. During my obsession with Ireland, I happened to discover a poet, Irishman, who remains my all-time favourite today. Heard of William Butler Years, Nobel Prize 1923 Laureate in Literature? He was perhaps not adored by everyone, but his remarkable contribution to Irish literary scene cannot be disputed. I cannot help but share my all-time favourite poem of his.
Alongside books and history, I swore by Celtic music. The lyrics, sung predominantly in Irish Gaelic, however, made little sense to me. I smile now as I remember my determination to learn this unfamiliar, unintuitive, new language, but that's what I did with unceasing passion during my penultimate year of high school. It was a struggle; I never quite got beyond the basics and pronunciation was driving me crazy. However, I did try.
Ireland was predictably followed by Scotland. I went to Scotland for the first time in the summer 2000, met amazing people and fell in love with another country - again. Next years would see me return to Scotland five more times, work one entire summer in Edinburgh, develop a shocking Scottish accent, pledge an oath to get married to a kilted guy to the sound of “Highland Cathedral” played by an army of more kilted guys with bagpipes, and so on. The only thing I strongly disliked about Scotland was the weather. But then again, who doesn't.
More years went by. I made conscious attempts to grow up and moved to Finland for my graduate studies. With Finland, it was always a love-hate relationship. I would cry when I was leaving the country - as well as when I was leaving FOR the country. I both longed for and loathed our every encounter. However, if not a real passion or a crush, Finland and I at least had an affair. I took a Finnish language class at university (not recommended), kissed a Finnish guy and became a fan of Värttinä and Eppu Normaali. This affair eventually died out, but at least we both had fun.
I had recently moved to London for my first full-time job when my world suddenly turned upside down. I fell in love for the first time, this time not with an abstract country concept, but with a real person. The person happened to be Greek, and my country preferences instantly made an abrupt north-south shift - all the way to the ancient glories of Greece. This was not a mere affair or crush or even passion - this time I was dealing with an over-flowing, over-consuming force beyond any imitation of control from my side. I was literally swept off my feet, with a control shot in a head afterwards. My music had to be Greek. My friends had to be Greek. My holidays had to be in Greece. I studied Greek language day and night. I used to hate cooking and suddenly became the biggest fan and virtuoso of Greek specialities. I could sniff a Greek origin in every word - including that famous "kimono". Eventually, I moved to Greece, experienced a bit of a cold shower and moved away again. Unbelievably, my obsession with Greece felt like a flash but actually lasted for as long as two years.
One would ask what my current country crush is. Or is there one? Well, continuing on my sunny destinations series, I am proud to announce that, currently, Croatia has the honour of occupying that privileged position in my heart. However, my fear is that the resulting post-Greece syndrome is stronger than it seems and the recovery process will not be short and easy. I have a feeling that any subsequent relationship with any European country will be overshadowed by the past and never quite cross the "affair" boundaries. Unlike in my previous crushes, I have no desire to learn Croatian language, support their national football team (which is by the way fantastic - HRVATSKA!) or fall in love with a Croat.
Perhaps the time has finally come for little Anna to grow up.
In the beginning, there was Spain. USSR having freshly broken up in the early 1990s, our local television was instantly flooded up by Spanish-speaking soap operas stemming from Spain proper to Mexico to Venezuela to Brazil (the latter obviously Portuguese-speaking but I couldn't tell at the time). Spain was my first country crush. The language was something so utterly non-Slavic that I just couldn't get enough. I was too young to develop this passion in any meaningful way, though, so I resorted myself to listening to Spanish music and drawing pictures of Flamenco dancers in my Maths notebooks. Needless to say that my Maths teacher wasn't happy.
Then there was Germany. I have to mention here that my parents are the keenest supporters of winter sports ever, biathlon being a key favourite. As a mere example, my mother would rather put the family to bed unfed than miss the Russian team's shoot-out on target. My dad's Russian biathlon sympathies, however less extreme, are still impressive. Little Anna, however, was a revolutionary from the start. Instead of dancing around dressed in a Russian tricolour mini-version, I gave my heart fully and unconditionally to the German biathlon team. I am not sure why I did that - perhaps thanks to Germans' sexy, tight grey skiing suits - but the fact remains one. Do you remember Ricco Gross, Frank Luck, Sven Fischer - all rocking the Lillehammer 1994 Winter Olympics? They were my heroes. My Maths notebooks suddenly turned towards a heavy Deutsch-inspired black/red/yellow colour palette. Thinking back on the situation, I am finding it weird how a 12-year-old had the guts enough to go against her parents and her ethnic Vaterland so easily? Vaterland is a German word, by the way. There you go.
I would be lying to myself here if I failed to mention the cutest German ever in existence. Who else but Georg Hackl, 3-time Olympic and World champion luger? It was his mysterious Bavarian look that got me to pick German as my second foreign language at school. Sadly though, due to rare utilisation, my German has become rather rusty these days. I am sure that my Bavarian Prince would not have been very happy.
Still tuned onto an Anglo-Saxon frequency, I then fell in love with England, the main trigger this time being not sports but music. Mid-1990s were the heyday of so-called Britpop. I had a particular soft spot for Manchester music scene, represented but not remotely defined by the likes of The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays, Inspiral Carpets, 808 State, James, The Charlatans, Oasis - as well as veterans like The Smiths, Joy Division, New Order and The Fall. Years have passed, but I can still feel my blood starting to boil at even a passing mention of Manchester. It was my unfulfilled teenage dream to visit the city. Can you believe I still haven't been? What a disgrace.
Years went by. Going through my dad's old record collection one rainy evening, I discovered some albums by U2, and a new banner rose on my horizon. The next couple of years in my life would be defined by Ireland. One clear difference from my previous country crushes was my slow, but growing, interest for history in addition to pure visual and audio material. I threw myself with passion into history books on Ireland, Northern Irish conflict, Irish geography, Irish immigration, Irish politics and everything else Irish. During my obsession with Ireland, I happened to discover a poet, Irishman, who remains my all-time favourite today. Heard of William Butler Years, Nobel Prize 1923 Laureate in Literature? He was perhaps not adored by everyone, but his remarkable contribution to Irish literary scene cannot be disputed. I cannot help but share my all-time favourite poem of his.
Alongside books and history, I swore by Celtic music. The lyrics, sung predominantly in Irish Gaelic, however, made little sense to me. I smile now as I remember my determination to learn this unfamiliar, unintuitive, new language, but that's what I did with unceasing passion during my penultimate year of high school. It was a struggle; I never quite got beyond the basics and pronunciation was driving me crazy. However, I did try.
Ireland was predictably followed by Scotland. I went to Scotland for the first time in the summer 2000, met amazing people and fell in love with another country - again. Next years would see me return to Scotland five more times, work one entire summer in Edinburgh, develop a shocking Scottish accent, pledge an oath to get married to a kilted guy to the sound of “Highland Cathedral” played by an army of more kilted guys with bagpipes, and so on. The only thing I strongly disliked about Scotland was the weather. But then again, who doesn't.
More years went by. I made conscious attempts to grow up and moved to Finland for my graduate studies. With Finland, it was always a love-hate relationship. I would cry when I was leaving the country - as well as when I was leaving FOR the country. I both longed for and loathed our every encounter. However, if not a real passion or a crush, Finland and I at least had an affair. I took a Finnish language class at university (not recommended), kissed a Finnish guy and became a fan of Värttinä and Eppu Normaali. This affair eventually died out, but at least we both had fun.
I had recently moved to London for my first full-time job when my world suddenly turned upside down. I fell in love for the first time, this time not with an abstract country concept, but with a real person. The person happened to be Greek, and my country preferences instantly made an abrupt north-south shift - all the way to the ancient glories of Greece. This was not a mere affair or crush or even passion - this time I was dealing with an over-flowing, over-consuming force beyond any imitation of control from my side. I was literally swept off my feet, with a control shot in a head afterwards. My music had to be Greek. My friends had to be Greek. My holidays had to be in Greece. I studied Greek language day and night. I used to hate cooking and suddenly became the biggest fan and virtuoso of Greek specialities. I could sniff a Greek origin in every word - including that famous "kimono". Eventually, I moved to Greece, experienced a bit of a cold shower and moved away again. Unbelievably, my obsession with Greece felt like a flash but actually lasted for as long as two years.
One would ask what my current country crush is. Or is there one? Well, continuing on my sunny destinations series, I am proud to announce that, currently, Croatia has the honour of occupying that privileged position in my heart. However, my fear is that the resulting post-Greece syndrome is stronger than it seems and the recovery process will not be short and easy. I have a feeling that any subsequent relationship with any European country will be overshadowed by the past and never quite cross the "affair" boundaries. Unlike in my previous crushes, I have no desire to learn Croatian language, support their national football team (which is by the way fantastic - HRVATSKA!) or fall in love with a Croat.
Perhaps the time has finally come for little Anna to grow up.
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