2009 Newsletter

2009 has officially been the quickest year in my life. It seems my 2008 Newsletter was written just yesterday, but it has in fact been exactly one year since we left it. I was living in Greece at the time and making long-term plans to stay there. I thought the London page had been closed, never to be touched again. Life has indeed taken a few unexpected turns in the past year. Most changes were for the better - and those which were not turned out to be a great learning experience.

Truly, 2009 has been an amazing year in many respects – professional, educational and social alike. Not only have I managed to find a perfect job at the peak of the financial crisis and move back to London – I have also fuelled my passion for photography by visiting several picturesque destinations, including my new big love, Western Balkans. A new language – Serbo-Croatian – can now safely be added to the list of languages I understand with varying degrees of poor proficiency. Not even to mention the new wonderful people I have met – and re-met after many years – in 2009.

During the year past, I have once again failed to keep up with my ceaselessly marrying and proliferating friends. Instead, just like in the previous years, I continued listening to other people's engagement news and wedding bells and buying baby clothes for other people's babies. I would like to wish all the newly engaged/married couples and fresh parents a wonderful continuation of their forever changed lives! I feel confident about joining your ranks one day, too.

2009 was an intense year travel-wise. I have managed to visit 19 different countries, of which there were nine first times. Unfortunately, I have narrowly undershot my original 20-country pursuit. My 2009 travels were densely focused on Europe, the only deviations being Israel and Morocco – arguably part of an extended European concept anyway. I hope that 2010 will include more long-haul destinations. New York and Cuba currently top my travel wish list.

In 2009, I also welcomed certain recognition for my photographic skills – or talent, as some of you like to call it. In particular, I won the first and second prizes in the Photo Competition organised by my current employer – European Bank for Reconstruction and Development (EBRD). Six of my photos made it to the final exhibition, and one was even printed on over a thousand Christmas cards mailed to EBRD’s clients and staff, signed by the President himself. Moreover, the Tourism Association of Bosnia and Herzegovina published some of my photos on their website. I am extremely grateful for the opportunity to share my photos with a wide circle of people and to receive recognition for what remains my number one hobby and the biggest passion in life.

Silver treetops in Salzburg, Austria - EBRD 2009 Christmas card cover

Let me proceed in order, however. At the end of 2008, I found myself unemployed in Greece, with that life-long holiday concept slightly worn off. I welcomed 2009 in Vienna, Austria, amid the exploding street poppers, fried sausages and gluhwein. My Austrian tour focused on the country’s three main gateways – the capital, Salzburg and Innsbruck. Every one was special in its own way; if I had to choose one, however, Innsbruck would have been my immediate choice. “The Sound of Music” seemed to permeate the whole atmosphere, the Alps were rising up majestically towards the brilliantly clear skies, the food was gloriously delicious – I will come again!

From Austria, I headed home to Latvia and Lithuania for a 10-day life-realignment session. I had for a while been brooding on hopes of returning into quality employment, which Greece, sadly, could not provide. After a long thinking process, it became clear that retuning to London was indeed my best option. It was not easy to decide and even harder to implement. My preliminary interviews were truly disastrous. The crisis-stricken financial sector of London was saturated with freshly unemployed, highly qualified professionals knocking on all doors they could reach. And I clearly could not compete with the majority of them. Devastated, I fled the UK for brief visits to Brussels and Paris. It was fantastic to see some of the people I had not seen for 6+ years. Many thanks to everyone who had time to meet me.

London double-decker bus, my January visit to London

Days after returning to Greece after almost a month of absence, I grew increasingly estranged to what once was the country of my dreams. I fled again – this time to the neighbouring Republic of Macedonia. The trip involved a 12-hour train ride from Athens to Skopje via Thessaloniki, which was wonderfully worth it – many thanks to my Macedonian friends for the most amazing time. The city with unique character, Skopje has a very special place in my heart, and I can hardly wait to revisit.

The flag of the Republic of Macedonia on top of Kale Fortress in Skopje

Visiting Skopje must have brought me good luck, as, immediately afterwards, I received an invitation to the interview of my dreams – for a Power Analyst position with the EBRD in London. The job description looked like it had been written just for me. The interviews were nothing like the fiascos I experienced with the private sector in January. I loved EBRD – and the feeling seemed to be mutual, as I received a call back within hours, and a job offer shortly thereafter. The time has come for me to leave. My Greek dream was over.

During my final days in Greece, I managed to fulfil a long-term ambition of visiting the Western Macedonia region and the Prespa Lakes. The scenery was more than stunning. Perfectly undisturbed waters reflected the snowy mountain tops of the three countries sharing the lakes – the sight which will remain in my memory forever. This was my official farewell to Greece.

Big Prespa Lake, from Greek Macedonia to the Republic to Macedonia

After briefly stopping in Malta – an unbelievable intersection of Italian, English and Arab cultures – I arrived in London in mid-March, with three boxes and two suitcases worth of life. Pretty much the first flat I saw fell into my mind and solved my homelessness problem. I loved my job at EBRD from the first day, and still thank God every morning for being able to go to work, enjoy plentiful responsibility and have interesting projects to work on. Hallelujah!

By Easter, I was ready for some renewed globe-trotting, hitting the Promised Land – Israel. It just happened to be Passover, and the ancient city of Jerusalem swarming with worshippers and visitors alike was a unique sight. The memorable highlights of the trip were eyeing the division wall between Israel and Palestine and treading barefoot in the salt waters of Tel Aviv's endless beach – the experiences as contradictory as Israel itself. Less of a highlight was nearly missing my inbound flight after underestimating the killer security measures at Tel Aviv airport. My advice to everyone would be to allow for least three hours there!

May was a busy month travel-wise. I started it by crossing the Strait of Gibraltar on a ferry route between Spain and Morocco. I will never forget watching that multicolour sunset over the Atlantic Ocean. The month went on, and I flew to Norway to pay a regular visit to my “Norwegian family” and celebrate Alexander Rybak’s Eurovision success – which just happened to coincide with Norway’s National Day. In mid-May, I was sent on my first work-related mission in Slovenia. The contrast with Macedonia could not have been more pronounced. I seriously could not believe the two nations co-existed as one at some point in the past. Finally, I have revisited Greece – Athens and the island of Andros – at the dusk of May for some final arrangements. I am not sure when I will be emotionally ready to visit Greece again.

Feasting on the Greek island of Andros

The summer rushed by rather quickly. From its onset, I made a vow to focus my exploratory efforts on my regained country of residence, England. It is often tempting – and cheaper – for us Londoners to fly abroad instead of get to know the rest of the country. During the summer and also the rest of the year, I finally visited the counties of Suffolk and Norfolk, as well as Bath, Birmingham, Brighton, Cambridge, Hastings and Windsor. England is wonderfully full of tradition and is a picturesque place to live. Too bad we capital buddies so often choose to neglect it.

After I had safely left my previous demographic group (18-25 years) and revisited Slovenia on a second business mission in July, the end of the summer began looming ahead. My main holiday of the year was yet to come. It kicked off in style with the U2 concert at London’s Wembley Stadium. I will not exaggerate if I say that that particular event was my full-year highlight. The experience was truly unforgettable. Every note hit a hidden chord in my mind. My longest-term dream to see live my favourite band, whose music I have found a great source of inspiration for years, was finally fulfilled.

Energised by U2, I set off on a 2-week holiday trip to the Western Balkans. After making my way down Croatia’s Adriatic coast with stops in Zadar, Split, Hvar, Korčula and Dubrovnik, I went on to see Montenegro’s Kotor Bay and Bosnia & Herzegovina’s amazing cities of Mostar and Sarajevo. It was the best holiday of my eventful life so far – and I have pretty high standards from holidaying in Greece for eight months! Many thanks to the people I have met and visited along the way. It would not have been the same without you.

Korčula Town on Croatia's Korčula island, minutes before sunset

Though September in London certainly surprised with its warm sunny evenings, I somehow developed an agonising post-holiday depression and spent most of the month longing for the Balkans. I flew to Serbia at the end of the month in the hope to numb the pain. The fun-spirited cities of Belgrade and Novi Sad provided that essential anti-depressant. Many thanks to the people I saw there. While the controversial pocket of land known as Kosovo is yet to be covered, I have finally visited all core ex-Yugoslavian countries.

The amount of work steadily went up during the autumn. My sole moments of entertainment were sporadic trips to Latvia, Spain and Hungary, as well as – of course! – the unforgettable wedding of my good friend Wani. Dancing to funky Nigerian tunes was an experience my memory would struggle to erase. Dear Wani, I wish you and Ayo many happy years ahead!

Wani and Ayo's wedding, 19 September 2009

My year’s final thirst for adventure was quenched in November, when I flew to Croatia to attend a conference organised by HAKFAS, a Croatian alumni chapter of The Fund for American Studies (TFAS). While the topic (NATO) left me somewhere between indifferent and defensive, I had fun alternatives in serving as the event’s photographer, catching up with old buddies and simply looking at the stars – a commodity unheard of in London. Many thanks to all the fellow participants! I hope to see many of you again at the consequent conferences.

As the year gradually approaches its end, I would like to wish all of you a wonderful Christmas and a most Happy New Year (in the order you prefer)! May it be the year to meet your most cherished goals and overcome the hardest of challenges. I hope to see many of you in 2010. Keep in touch, take care of yourselves and your families, and may this be another truly special year.

Have a great one!

This is England, or How I almost missed my flight

Thousands of people make their way from London airports and train stations every Christmas season. With quite a mass of travellers, trouble is just waiting to happen.

This year was no exception. Being an island exposed to hazards from all directions has not helped Great Britain to learn to cope with even minor weather disturbances. In a classic fashion, snow fell out shortly before the Christmas airport rush began, paralysing the most remote London airports such as Luton and Gatwick. The latter remained closed for one morning, with severely disturbed train connections to central London and within the airport. Not even to mention the saga that is Eurostar – thousands of stranded passengers regularly slept over at St Pancras International station for about a week up to Christmas Eve itself. Seriously, some countries are just not designed to withstand snow. And those countries don't have to be situated in the tropics.

My expectations for my own flight home were therefore rather low. I was due to fly out on Christmas Eve, 24 December. The weather conditions were however promising; after a week of freezing temperatures, we were back in the reds. The snow has stopped falling and pretty much all vanished in the regained warmth. Rain is something England faces frequently enough to tolerate. Thameslink train services to Gatwick were disrupted, but slower Southern were operating. My train departed on time. My flight's reported delay was only 30 minutes. It was all perfect! Could I ever be so lucky?

Of course not. After 50 minutes of snail-pace travel, the train stopped at Horley, the final station before Gatwick airport. And stood there. And stood there in the middle of nowhere, beyond any imaginary time limits. Passengers were eyeing each other, silent question reflected in their eyes.

And then the voice of the driver sounded. The train was being held there for a reason. Some woman reportedly dropped something onto the rail tracks and wanted it retrieved immediately, which was rather dangerous given that the train would have to be climbed under. She wouldn't leave the train to retrieve the lost possession once the train carries on, since that obviously meant that she would have to wait for the next train. Police was being called to bring some reason into the woman or use other methods. The train would be held at the station until the situation is resolved.

We glanced at each other, some outraged, some rather amused. One woman stranding four carriages full of passengers, on Christmas Eve, one stop away from the airport? In the absence of any other obstacles to fly? It sounded more like a joke than reality.

There was ample time before my own flight, so I went to investigate the situation. The woman's squealing voice could be heard from afar. I found her exploding to someone on the phone about the "entire train" being grossly "unreasonable". She looked well dressed, as were four little children behind her – three old enough to walk and an infant in a pram. It must have been something pretty valuable that fell under the train. What was it, I asked?

The people around pointed at the pram. Nothing seemed wrong with it. Then my eyes fell on a little attachment with three wheels. One wheel was missing. The attachment could be folded upwards, meaning that the pram was still fully functional. How much could the attachment cost? How difficult would it be for the woman to step off the train, have the wheel retrieved and depart on the next train after 20 minutes? Her children, of whom the oldest could not be beyond 6, were crying out loud behind her, but she was too busy proving her case. She was the right one. The rest of us were insensitive monsters incapable of stepping into her shoes.

After about 30 minutes of endless arguing, the police still failed to arrive and my check-in time was mercilessly approaching. Some desperate passengers got to the point of screaming at the woman for whom they were risking their Christmas flights. Before I could really worry myself, however, an identical train had arrived at the adjacent platform. Most of us fled, leaving the woman and her weeping children one-to-one with the train attendants.

I hence missed the end of the story, but at least I have seen the most interesting part. The part which explains why I find this country amusing and frustrating at the same time.

Good luck to all getting home this Christmas!

Wanted: An office boyfriend

I have an office boyfriend.

We met about three months ago. I wrote an article for our internal work paper on my summer adventures in the Balkans. Minutes after the article appeared online, an email signed by a stranger – let's call him Philip – popped in my Inbox. Philip loved my story. It was so well written and put his beautiful homeland in a favourable light in front of the entire bank. I appreciated the compliment and responded to Philip. That was the beginning of our month-long office relationship.

One should not confuse Philip with a real life boyfriend, though. An office boyfriend is a derivation from the concept of an office spouse, which arose in the US a few years ago. This phenomenon goes hand in hand with the increasingly long and stressful working hours in close proximity with co-workers, often those of the opposite sex. An office spouse is someone with whom you probably spend more day time than your official second half. Someone who knows your intimate secrets, your date of birth and your favourite tea flavour. Yet not someone you are married to in real life. The only statistics I have found on the subject are from Vault.com, a US-based media company for career information, which estimate the number of workers reportedly having an office spouse at 32 per cent. Chances are the number is growing as we speak.

Since the concept of a spouse still seems rather distant to me, I opted for an office boyfriend instead. Philip was a perfect one. When I came to the office, it was his email wishing me good morning out of my Inbox. When I was feeling down, it was Philip's number I dialled for some friendly advice. When I felt like a coffee or tea, Philip was my default companion. When it came to the President's speech, Philip was the only one honoured to hear my honest opinion. We wouldn't leave the office without saying goodbye in the evening. Some things were much easier to be shared with Philip rather than my actual boyfriend. It was all a rather rosy experience.

Naturally, there were some hidden dangers. What if our office affair grew into something real, especially given that our everyday work mostly involved un-exciting things like number crunching and reviewing legal documents? I brushed that aside. A touch of careful flirtation we had in the office never crossed any imaginary limits, and there was NEVER any sexual tension. Besides, Philip's real life girlfriend would put Gizelle to shame, and my actual boyfriend was a rather nice bloke, too. I even introduced Philip to him to avoid misunderstanding.

Some researchers advise us against meeting our office partners outside work, precisely for the danger of them growing into something real. However, going for drinks didn't seem to affect Philip and me. It actually helped us to understand each other better and strengthen our office relationship. The same researchers suggest that talking about your office relationship at home may not be the best idea. I would disagree with that. Keeping your office affair in the open reduces the chances that it will ever grow into anything else. Besides, my real life boyfriend didn't seem to care too much about my daily mentions of Philip. Or perhaps it was me he wasn't all that fussed about.

Another problem with office relationships is that they may become a topic for colleagues’ gossip. Some witnesses even nicknamed Philip and me "regular lunch buddies" – and were probably thinking beyond that. Most people I work with tend to be married with children and lead rather ordinary, settled lives. Discussing a suspiciously behaving office couple is fun for them. I didn't really mind it too much, though. I actually found it rather fun myself.

The biggest problem (and a hidden blessing) with office partners is that they only last as long as the employment itself. My office boyfriend's 6-month contract is due to expire in mid-January. I could not be more devastated by the fact. Who will send me a "dobro jutro" message every morning and web links to Oliver Dragojević's songs throughout the day? Who will listen to my gossip? Who will be my coffee buddy when everyone else is busy? Life in the office will indeed be pale without my Philip.

In this respect, I have decided to run an announcement across the bank. An announcement about a reasonably-looking 26-year-old female Analyst from the Power & Energy Utilities team looking for a new office boyfriend. My demands are anything but high. I don't really care if he happens to be a smoker or not. I could not be fussed about his age – 20 or 60 would do equally well. I have no preferences whatsoever as far as appearance is concerned. And he doesn't have to come from former Yugoslavia, either. I am truly expanding my generic search criteria!

The main characteristic I would however ask for is to understand my jokes – meaning laughing loudly verbally and sending me HUGE smiles in written form. He also has to respect my personal space and not feel jealous when I choose the swimming pool during the lunch break rather than his company. It would be great if he could compliment on my appearance every now and then. And if he could introduce me to some of his cute witty friends outside work, that would be perfect, too.

Too bad we can't choose our bosses

I tattooed the title of this post on my bleeding heart during my previous employment. For the entire two years, most projects I worked on happened to be fronted by a senior banker whose name I would rather forget. I will not mention it here; I actually doubt the person himself remembers the correct spelling of it after years of switching back and forth between its Americanised and original versions, depending on the mood. Let us call that person Dick. As I think back on some of Dick's utterly abnormal behaviour, I am shocked by the mere idea of HOW such screaming examples of stupidity were tolerated in a professional environment. I have been musing on this for too long. Time has come for it to come out.

I initially found Dick rather normal. He was always good at suppressing any sign of anomaly at first encounter - like most of us would be in a subconscious attempt to secure a favourable initial impression. Dick was also one of those responsible for turning my internship into a permanent contract. I therefore felt rather grateful when I finally joined his team. I was likewise excited to find myself suddenly useful as the only Russian speaker in a team increasingly involved in Russia. Dick claimed to speak some Russian from his childhood days and steered the regional focus. My fate was sorted. I was stuck with Dick for pretty much my entire career at that particular company.

My initial "normal chap" impression quickly began to crumble. Something was wrong there. Eccentric is the word that springs to mind, and one could argue that nothing is wrong with being a bit eccentric. A bit. But Dick was shockingly so. Let me give you only a few examples of his behaviour.

Those of you in possession of a Blackberry know the default "Sent from My Blackberry Wireless Handheld" signature which appears under outgoing email messages. When it becomes annoying, some of us choose to shorten it, remove it or even replace it with something unassuming. None of that apparently seemed worthy of Dick. His was, proudly, "Sent from My Washing Machine". No comment.

Or take another example. LinkedIn is a professional networking website used by many in the City of London. Until recently, Dick's position there was listed as "Cleaner" at a company called "Toilet". A sole proprietorship, I presume. Is this screamingly unprofessional, humorous or simply gross? I have checked his profile there recently and noticed, with relief, that it had been replaced with Dick's actual position. A much more glamorous one but, according to some recent research, way more value destructive to society.

Further still. We used to have weekly team meetings in a large conference room. Some people were usually away travelling, but, occasionally, our full team of just under 20 people would gather around a long table. Dick tended to be running late everywhere and make it just in the nick of time. On one of such occasions, Dick rushed in to find all the chairs in the room occupied. Without missing a beat, he turned upside down a rubbish bin - yes, a RUBBISH BIN! - after which, ladies and gentlemen, he SAT ON IT. He sat on it for the entire duration of the team meeting. Silence prevailed in the room; everyone seemed to have lowered their voice. We tried not to look at one of the most senior people on the floor crowning an upside-down garbage container. Is this normal?

Another thing on my memory is Dick's peculiar grammar obsession. He was paranoid about font style, size and colour. He was likewise obsessed with punctuation - semicolon topping his personal preference list. Many a night did I wait for his comments on a proposed presentation, only to be given a mark-up modestly containing (in that order): (1) one bullet point reduced from Font 10 to Font 9; (2) one comma replaced with a semicolon; (3) one clumsy adjective transformed into an auxiliary sentence; and (4) "states" in "Baltic states" reduced from capital to lower case. Obviously, things you would need to keep an analyst awake all night for.

Travelling with Dick was like a nightmare materialised. Firstly, he never checked in any luggage for time constraints and assumed this ultimate ban to spread onto his junior companions. I once dared to check in a bag and was exposed to a day-long shower of sarcasm and general harassment. It taught me a lesson. Perhaps Dick wasn't as effeminate as myself (although I had my doubts) and failed to grasp every woman's vital need to carry plenty of liquids even on business trips - which those pathetic 10x100ml containers could only dream of accommodating.

Secondly, Dick would refuse to enter an aeroplane until the final call, choosing to chill in the business lounge before that. Uniquely gifted with an unbelievably speedy walking pace, Dick clearly did not find it problematic to make the flight. His less talented companions suffered, however. I could not count the times I had to trail that devoted Forrest Gump disciple, the airport speakers announcing my name among those other evil passengers delaying the flight. What a nightmare.

Oh, and Dick has studied at one of the best universities in the US. Naturally, he has taken some of that precious knowledge with him through the years. In particular, he was rather nostalgic about history. St. Petersburg for him was forever Leningrad. Perhaps it was a joke I failed to get. Istanbul was - what else? - Constantinople. Once I asked Dick to explain his irrational attachment to outdated names, to which he responded that he didn't actually mean Constantinople. He meant Byzantium. And the curtain fell.

I could mention other things. Things like never looking at me during a conversation. Things like proudly riding his 20-year-old derelict student bicycle to work. Things like extending his personal CV on an entire page of our team presentation when the Team Head’s only went for half of that. Things like listing about 15 languages in that particular CV, including "a modest understanding of several Scandinavian and Slavic languages" (impress me with that!). Things like childishly begging colleagues to bring him a Starbucks Caramel Macchiato from downstairs. All the things which make me cringe.

All the things which make me wish we could indeed choose our bosses.

Last Christmas...

Last Friday, our internal office paper published a submission call for fiasco Christmas stories. Not the heart-warming ones which would bring a cheerful glow on your face and make you long for the festivities to start. No, the newspaper was really after some Yuletide woe: stories about embarrassing family reunions, disastrous dinners and plain wrong presents.

Exciting, I thought. Finally some decent article amid the sickeningly saccharine Christmas material dominating the seasonal headlines. Accidentally, my last year’s Christmas happened to be nothing short of depressing. Inspired, I drafted a story and duly submitted it. I was all expectation. A compilation of our workplace’s Christmas fiascos seemed like a fantastic idea.

Unfortunately, not all things in life always go according to the plan. Last night I was advised that my story was the ONLY contribution to the pool, and that the whole idea had been dropped by the editor. My orphaned story was returned to me “with compliments”.

Were my colleagues all happy Christmas bunnies, or were they simply lazy and lacking inspiration? Time will show. For now, however, I will give my story a privilege of being published – if not in the bank-wide weekly – in my personal blog instead. So – last Christmas…

…Last Christmas was meant to be something very special. My then boyfriend and I had planned everything well in advance. We were living in Athens, and the plan was to spend our Christmas in the Greek Mani region and the Monemvasia fortress on the Peloponnesus peninsula. Hotels had been booked, maps prepared and best tavernas recommended. Just before we headed off, I checked the weather forecast. All mountainous parts of Greece were cosily snowed in, which was a good sign. Romantic white Christmas was awaiting us.

Metsovo village, Epirus region - where we really should have gone...

Minutes after we reached Mani, clouds started crowding in. Surely for some snow, we assumed. Not quite. What followed shortly afterwards was the worst torrential downpour in the history of Greek Christmas and my own modest memory. It would all have been fine had it not lasted – but it did. Three days and three nights of unbelievable, unprecedented hazard – endless raging rain, rain, rain and wind menacingly gushing in the chimneys. It was the closest to the end of the world I have ever been to.

Matters got especially bad by the time we transferred to Monemvasia. Seriously, the last place where you’d want to end up in such weather would be a fortress on a rock inside the sea, connected to the mainland by a narrow strip of land. With ceaseless raging rain and ever-intensifying wind, the feeling of isolation was close to unbearable. Add to that a poor choice of what was meant to be a rather comfortable hotel. Lukewarm water, low temperatures inside the room, absence of any TV/mobile/Internet reception and bugs on the floor were only a handful of luxuries included in the price.

Monemvasia - endless rain and gushing wind...

We survived for one night and fled to the mountains proper, for that much-needed post-Christmas snow. Sadly, by then our holidays had been over…

Here’s to some decent Christmas this year!

Secret Santa: What's in a present?

During this intense pre-Christmas period, some people are asking me about the so-called "Secret Santa" tradition.

The best way to describe it is as a Christmas game in which the members are randomly assigned to buy presents for each other. The presents are then distributed anonymously. The idea is a practical solution for workplaces and large families. A price cap per present is usually imposed in order to avoid extravaganza or frugality alike.

Until recently, I knew very little about Secret Santa. Having given it some thorough read, however, I discovered some interesting facts. Firstly, what I previously imagined to be an "English thing" seems to cover several countries in the Western world, not only Anglo-Saxon (Ireland, Canada, the US, Australia and New Zealand) but also German-speaking (Germany and Austria), Hispanic (Spain and Latin America) and even the Philippines.

Secondly, the tradition has a number of interesting variations, including "White Elephant" (where the participants can choose between opening a new present or expropriating the one previously opened by someone else) and "Secret Casino Santa" (which is far too complicated to explain but basically boils down to participants being able to choose cash instead of presents and gamble to win presents rejected by others). Amazing what people can think of!

Armed with this important knowledge, out I went to buy a present for our office's very own Secret Santa. The person whose name I drew out of a hat turned out to be the former Energy Minister of Bulgaria, currently serving as our Energy Adviser. What could one possibly buy for an elderly man whose private life I knew nothing about? A serious present clearly wouldn’t do.

As I walked into Marks & Spencer’s home section, my eyes fell on a cute cotton apron. Could my colleague be a dedicated cook? Knowing Balkan men, I giggled at the idea. Probably not. Will he find the apron useful? Wouldn't think so. Will he find it funny? Oh yes. Will our colleagues find it funny if an elderly ex-Minister from the macho Balkans gets an apron as a present? Absolutely; I was sorted. The apron was wrapped in glossy paper, tied up with a shiny string (I am female, remember), and discreetly placed into the common pool of presents.

The day of our Secret Santa finally came. The experience has taught me a few important lessons:

Price caps are good but bending them makes things more fun: we are a public institution and had a pathetic 5-pound limit per present. There's not much one can buy for 5 pounds in the country like the UK. Some glamorous investment bankers in the City started from 10 pounds going upwards and could afford to stretch the boundaries of their wit accordingly. Then again, the salaries my colleagues and I get are way below those of the investment bankers. In short, I was happy to SPEND not more than 5 pounds but less happy to RECEIVE the equivalent value. Blame the human nature.

"Universal" presents are outrageously mundane: you are not assigned a particular person to get away with something impersonal. The most traditional presents I can think of are photo albums and – what else! – photo frames. There were at least three such screaming examples of the lack of imagination at our Secret Santa. Unless you know with certainty that a particular individual litters their house with photo frames, a present like this would be impersonal to tears and a straight candidate for being re-wrapped and passed on to someone else. And else. And else.

Spice up your jokes with some truth: our rather emotional Team Director was given a manual head massage device. An enclosed card read "Due to the headcount reductions this year, the gift has been limited to the head". Genius! Mind you also, I have tried out the device and it did wonders calming me down. Let's hope for positive changes on that front for the recepient, too.

Joke away but avoid sensitive issues: every one of us is touchy about certain things we would rather not be reminded of. One of my balding colleagues received a wig. I caught a strange spark in his eyes as he wore an amused face trying on his new hairdo. Such gifts are more sad than funny. I would only see them given to annoy a heavily disliked person.

Everyday items are not funny: one of our new mothers was given a set of baby wipes. I don't think she is anywhere short of either having enough at home or being able to afford a few on her generous maternity package. It is like being given a toilet paper roll. For Christmas. Practical? Yes. Memorable? Mmm, yes. Original? One would say that. Something you would like to receive yourself? Absolutely not.

You probably wonder how my apron scored with the former Energy Minister? I am happy to announce that it was a huge success – largely because I had guessed correctly that the man never cooked in his life. Apparently though, his wife did it regularly instead. Perhaps the sole reason that my Bulgarian colleague was so happy about his useless Christmas present is that he didn't need to bother buying one for his wife anymore.

Merry Christmas!

Things I love to photograph

Some of my photography-loving friends have recently been working on their manifestos. No, they haven't been running around protesting about things or pushing their way into parliaments. A photographer's manifesto is typically a set of values used for personal guidance and communication to the world of WHAT the particular photographer's photos are really about. Something I have never had before. I have just been randomly taking pictures without much thought. Really, it seemed to me that putting any constraints on my photography could not do much good.

Having given the matter a more substantial thought, however, I came to the conclusion that a manifesto was indeed useful. Not only would it enable me to describe my photographic work to others more sensibly - it would also help me to determine what I am really good at as a photographer and focus on those things. I have therefore decided to list some of the things I really enjoy to photograph - and a real manifesto will hopefully build itself on that basis.

Cemeteries: When it comes to photographing cemeteries, I am an addict. Please understand me correctly - tombstones and graves are such a unique source of national history and culture. Most of my friends fail to understand this, however. When I visited my boyfriend in Belgrade and was asked what I would like to see, my "whatever old cemeteries you have, please" was initially taken as a joke. But I mean it. Faded flowers, candles, epitaphs, crosses, moss-covered tombs – every aspect of a cemetery fascinates me. Perhaps the reason is that the place where I was raised was surrounded by huge cemeteries. Four of them.

Decaying buildings: Forget Vienna, Prague, Dresden and the like - pompous palaces, baroque churches, golden-plated domes, polished-up facades are things I find exceedingly sterile. Take me instead to a chaotic Balkan, North African or Middle Eastern city, and I will lose myself there. I love when the bricks are crumbling, the colours are washed off by decades of endless rain, the door handles are long since gone, the glass is broken, the roof is falling through, the tree is growing in the middle of the building - I love that! Not that I do not appreciate architectural beauty. I definitely do. Beautiful photos are also much more attractive commercially than those which I personally find more valuable to the true world of photography. My heart hence firmly lies with the chaos. Skopje and Belgrade remain personal favourites.

War-touched buildings: I am not a supporter of war. In fact, I consider myself an outright pacifist. But buildings carrying a stamp of war simply take my breath away. I can spend hours next to a shelled and bombed building, taking photos. A symbol of relatively recent military action, Vukovar has been my destination of choice for months. I will finally be going there on a small photographic mission in March.

Similarly, I love capturing the aftermath of major riots, such as the ones that took place in Athens last December. I would have walked out in the heat of the fire action, but could not risk the safety of my camera. Instead, I photographed the destruction the riots brought - broken windows, vandalised buildings, destroyed shop signs, Christmas tree burnt down to the roots… I would hate to be responsible for cleaning away the mess, but my heart enflames at the idea of the mess itself.

Strikes and demonstrations: when they are only preparing to march, I am already holding my camera at the ready. For some strike action, no country beats the good old Greece. Seriously, I could make a photo exhibition for every day of the week from Greek strikes alone. Generally, I love capturing people’s idealistic preferences expressed aloud with bright posters, rolling drums, face painting and flags - especially flags. No matter about my personal feeling for a particular country, I can patiently wait for the favourable direction of the wind to capture that one perfect flag photo - open wide, lit up beautifully from behind, making a few nice curves in its gentle wind play. The more flags, the better! I had a total blast once in front of the Government building in Skopje, with countless yellow suns populating those Balkan skies.

Abandoned factories: more broken glass, dust, overgrown plants and that sour humid smell everywhere. I would absolutely pay someone to drive me to Kragujevac in Serbia to capture the old Zastava factory. Perhaps it's part of my precious childhood memories, too - I grew up in the Sarkandaugava district of Riga, Latvia - best known for its old glass factory no-one really uses these days. This thing is standing literally next to the block of flats where I spent 20 years of my life. Could I ever remain indifferent after that? Clearly not.

Sunsets and sunrises: fine, after all those obnoxious objects I have claimed to love to capture so far, this may come as a surprise. I actually love to immortalise the beauty of the rising and setting sun alike. The best sunset in my memory has to be the one from Thessaloniki, Greece, one cloudy day in March 2008. Sunrises are generally more of a challenge to catch, but I have managed a few. The best one is definitely the serene scene from Patmos island, Greece, on a lovely summer morning in July 2008.

Old people: impersonal items aside, I love photographing old people. They can be relaxing, playing chess, reading newspapers, selling fruit from street stalls, swimming, sleeping, gossipping, drinking booze from dirty bottles, kissing their grandchildren to tears - I don't care. Old people are just too cool to miss. Their only subtle disadvantage is occasionally protesting against being photographed – or, even worse, mistaking your attention for something romantic and asking for your phone number.

Naughty children: a sat down child looking at the camera is an excruciatingly boring image. Children have to run, play, crash into each other and passers-by, go crazy on the swing – or, at the very minimum, keep changing their facial expressions at a wild rate per second. Non-active children are wrong by definition - and make dull material for photos.

Interesting signs: "Athens 500km" is boring for its mundane content; "Yugoslavia 18km" is fabulous for its originality. Similarly, an otherwise non-remarkable road sign on Crete can become a winner when you look closely enough to notice the bullet marks on it. Cretans are known as rebels and defy any form of authority, including traffic police. Road signs are seen as an attempt to limit their personal freedom, hence should be attacked. Signs are truly a bunch of gorgeous little ambassadors of less obvious aspects of every national culture.

After reading what I just wrote above, I have noticed that one thing is missing. Myself. My mother is always complaining that I rarely feature in my own photo albums. Perhaps she has a point, after all.