Friday, Nov. 28th, 2008 Ibex: +0.65%
08.12
Extracts from this weeks statistics
There are now 40 Million people HIV infected world wide.
25000 of them live in Switzerland.
Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse ranks no. 8 on the worlds most expensive shopping streets, measured by rent paid by square meter. New York's Fifth Avenue is still top of the bill.
Two third of all seventeen year old girls at Swiss schools had sex.
One out of three before they were fourteen.
Almost half the world — over 3 billion people — live on less than $2.50 a day.
The GDP (Gross Domestic Product) of the 41 Heavily Indebted Poor Countries (567 million people) is less than the wealth of the world’s 7 richest people combined.
Ten percent of the registered population in Switzerland lives on an income below the poverty line, which is set at CHF 2.300 per month for a person living in a single household.
California has the world 7th largest economy. Did you know this?
Nearly a billion people entered the 21st century unable to read a book or sign their names.
Less than one per cent of what the world spent every year on weapons was needed to put every child into school by the year 2000.
Yet, it didn’t happen.
An estimated 1.3 billion people smoke.
84% of all smokers live in developing and transitional economy countries.
Most people start smoking before the age of 18; almost a quarter of these individuals begin using tobacco before the age of 10 47.5% of all men smoke compared to 10.3% of women. Tobacco is the fourth most common risk factor for fatal diseases worldwide.
A Swiss district court sentenced a former member of the management of Bank Leumi to eight years imprisonment. He had misappropriated over one hundred million Swiss Francs.
Driving a car and operate a mobile phone at the same time increases the chance of a road accident by a factor eight, even when a hands-free set is used. The effect is just as distracting and resembles driving under considerable influence of alcohol.
The Danish are the happiest people in Europe. Second and third come the Swedish and the Finns.
The Macedonians are the most unhappy, closely followed by the Hungarians and Bulgarians.
The survey had left the Swiss out.
Tuesday 25 November 2008
Saturday 22 November 2008
Winners without a final
Monday, Nov 24th, 2008 S&P/ASX 200 +0.25%
07.51
BBC website (http://www.bbc.co.uk/)
Everything is upside-down. The climate is changing - the economy evaporating and last Saturday the winter prematurely ended.
Let me explain this. Most of us function in rhythms, circles, time loops if you like. You know these things. On Monday you wear your best suit to work, to remind yourself the weekend is over. After a Sunday visit to the inlaws, you plan a boys night out with the guys from the office during that week as you think you deserve something, etc... Little routines that become the beacons in life.
For me the winter season, which I hate with a passion, is over when Strictly come dancing finishes as this is normally in January and the days will slowly start to lengthen again.
Strictly ended Saturday evening for me, as the winner is known now. It's John Sergeant, and by a landslide.
The judges obviously have a problem with the way the results are produced in this show, or rather, with some of the results the public votes produce. They forget that it's their own slag that provokes this. Or perhaps they don't care.
You see that's the problem. Unlike the contestants, they can't be voted off and what's more, they are in a position to judge the performance of people who, in other capacities, are very successful in life. If this does not produce a supersized ego, I don't know what will.
So, in the words of David Mitchell, (who is actually really funny) you get a sixty-some year old political commentator in there, let him compete with an olympic swimming champion, a professional rugby player and others half his age and then slag him off for not being the best dancer. Yeah go on then - great fun!
Then something happens. The public turns against you. Imagine, the nitwits out there, who clearly have no clue about how a hold should look like when performing a tango, keep voting for him, so he won't even be in the dance-off. They've got a cheek. Who're the experts here?
So you react like an insulted child and make nasty remarks. (Come on Len, even you have to admit your comments stink). Of course, you keep saying it's nothing personal, but with a tone like "you should feel guilty for still being here" it can hardly be anything else. As a result, public support almost doubles overnight.
What everybody forgot of course is that you can't be a successful political commentator and journalist if you are clueless about how public opinion works. And John Sergeant may not have been the most technical dancer, he's highly intelligent and a master of his own trade.
In addition, he's hugely popular. And the judges reckoned they could get rid of him just like that. What were they thinking?
John quickly understood that voting behaviour was at least partly meant to punish the smug attitude from the Graigs and Brunos of this world, not to mention the Gran-with-the-one-track-mind. The other part really had to do with his dancing, which was, let's face it, well choreographed and showed that performances can be entertaining. Not in the least because, if one thing became clear, it's that John and Kristina genuinely enjoyed dancing together.
Kristina is beautiful and John a likeable fellow, now who would not vote to see that one more week? The reality was that, although the jury would prevent them from winning, the public would not have them lose. It resulted into a stalemate and tensions began to rise above the normal levels of entertainment.
John's steps may not always have been perfect, his timing was excellent and I don't mean just his rhythm, which was definitely not the worst of his talents. He knew something had to be done in secure to a graceful exit. Stop while you're winning, and leave them hungry.
And what a way to go! A smoothly performed waltz, to underline the romantic element. Lift at the end, to show he can do it, rewarded by a standing ovation from everyone (except the judges but remember, it wasn't personal - as if). To top it off, a gracious speech with just one subtle hint as the key message and her goodbyes in tears, in which she stopped short of saying she loves him. What better prize for a true winner?
Now that's talent!
Off you go Len! But don't worry - you're my favourite!
07.51
BBC website (http://www.bbc.co.uk/)
Everything is upside-down. The climate is changing - the economy evaporating and last Saturday the winter prematurely ended.
Let me explain this. Most of us function in rhythms, circles, time loops if you like. You know these things. On Monday you wear your best suit to work, to remind yourself the weekend is over. After a Sunday visit to the inlaws, you plan a boys night out with the guys from the office during that week as you think you deserve something, etc... Little routines that become the beacons in life.
For me the winter season, which I hate with a passion, is over when Strictly come dancing finishes as this is normally in January and the days will slowly start to lengthen again.
Strictly ended Saturday evening for me, as the winner is known now. It's John Sergeant, and by a landslide.
The judges obviously have a problem with the way the results are produced in this show, or rather, with some of the results the public votes produce. They forget that it's their own slag that provokes this. Or perhaps they don't care.
You see that's the problem. Unlike the contestants, they can't be voted off and what's more, they are in a position to judge the performance of people who, in other capacities, are very successful in life. If this does not produce a supersized ego, I don't know what will.
So, in the words of David Mitchell, (who is actually really funny) you get a sixty-some year old political commentator in there, let him compete with an olympic swimming champion, a professional rugby player and others half his age and then slag him off for not being the best dancer. Yeah go on then - great fun!
Then something happens. The public turns against you. Imagine, the nitwits out there, who clearly have no clue about how a hold should look like when performing a tango, keep voting for him, so he won't even be in the dance-off. They've got a cheek. Who're the experts here?
So you react like an insulted child and make nasty remarks. (Come on Len, even you have to admit your comments stink). Of course, you keep saying it's nothing personal, but with a tone like "you should feel guilty for still being here" it can hardly be anything else. As a result, public support almost doubles overnight.
What everybody forgot of course is that you can't be a successful political commentator and journalist if you are clueless about how public opinion works. And John Sergeant may not have been the most technical dancer, he's highly intelligent and a master of his own trade.
In addition, he's hugely popular. And the judges reckoned they could get rid of him just like that. What were they thinking?
John quickly understood that voting behaviour was at least partly meant to punish the smug attitude from the Graigs and Brunos of this world, not to mention the Gran-with-the-one-track-mind. The other part really had to do with his dancing, which was, let's face it, well choreographed and showed that performances can be entertaining. Not in the least because, if one thing became clear, it's that John and Kristina genuinely enjoyed dancing together.
Kristina is beautiful and John a likeable fellow, now who would not vote to see that one more week? The reality was that, although the jury would prevent them from winning, the public would not have them lose. It resulted into a stalemate and tensions began to rise above the normal levels of entertainment.
John's steps may not always have been perfect, his timing was excellent and I don't mean just his rhythm, which was definitely not the worst of his talents. He knew something had to be done in secure to a graceful exit. Stop while you're winning, and leave them hungry.
And what a way to go! A smoothly performed waltz, to underline the romantic element. Lift at the end, to show he can do it, rewarded by a standing ovation from everyone (except the judges but remember, it wasn't personal - as if). To top it off, a gracious speech with just one subtle hint as the key message and her goodbyes in tears, in which she stopped short of saying she loves him. What better prize for a true winner?
Now that's talent!
Off you go Len! But don't worry - you're my favourite!
Wednesday 19 November 2008
It's all in the numbers
Wednesday, Nov 20th 2008 Kospi: - 1.85%
18.40 - On the commuter train home
Extracts from todays news.
Zurich - Kunst08, officially an exhibition but in essence an art fair, drew 24800 visitors in the three days it ran last week, 25% more than last year. What was noticed though was that, contrary to previous years, people tried to haggle. Unusual, unprecedented and very un-Swiss.
Bern - By the end of 2007 the Swiss owned an average capital of 171,000 CHF per head, some 2200 CHF more than in 2006.
Opec states are considering cutting output to raise the prices again to what they see an acceptable level. Teheran aims for US$ 100 per barrel, the Saudi's would be happy with 70 dollars.
Taipeh Shopping - courtesy of the State. The Taiwanese prime minister proposes to issue shopping vouchers to its citizens for a total value of two billion Euros, comparing the credit crunch to a "global tsunami" which requires extraordinary measures to combat.
Hewlett-Packard presented an optimistic forecast for 2009, un-rebuked by the economic climate. HP shares climbed twelve percent and took Apple and IBM in its upward slipstream.
Bank of America almost doubles its shares in China Construction with an extra US$7-billion investment in spite of yet more write-downs.
Hong Kong has to deal with protests against unemployment and empty office buildings as it finds itself in recession. Third quarter growth shrank to 1.4 percent.
More than 1.1 billion people on this planet have no access to clean water. An estimated 1.8 million people die each year of the consequences.
Miami - In the first week of December the most important art fair in the USA, "Art Basel Miami" takes place and draws celebrities like George Clooney and Brad Pitt to the famous Setai Hotel. Room prices as of 1150 US$ per night.
London - John Sergeant, famous political journalist withdraws from Strictly Come Dancing, currently the show with the most international spin-offs. Sixteen celebrities took part this year. The show and its spin-offs, like Dancing with the Stars, sold to 38 countries.
Crisis - what crisis?
18.40 - On the commuter train home
Extracts from todays news.
Zurich - Kunst08, officially an exhibition but in essence an art fair, drew 24800 visitors in the three days it ran last week, 25% more than last year. What was noticed though was that, contrary to previous years, people tried to haggle. Unusual, unprecedented and very un-Swiss.
Bern - By the end of 2007 the Swiss owned an average capital of 171,000 CHF per head, some 2200 CHF more than in 2006.
Opec states are considering cutting output to raise the prices again to what they see an acceptable level. Teheran aims for US$ 100 per barrel, the Saudi's would be happy with 70 dollars.
Taipeh Shopping - courtesy of the State. The Taiwanese prime minister proposes to issue shopping vouchers to its citizens for a total value of two billion Euros, comparing the credit crunch to a "global tsunami" which requires extraordinary measures to combat.
Hewlett-Packard presented an optimistic forecast for 2009, un-rebuked by the economic climate. HP shares climbed twelve percent and took Apple and IBM in its upward slipstream.
Bank of America almost doubles its shares in China Construction with an extra US$7-billion investment in spite of yet more write-downs.
Hong Kong has to deal with protests against unemployment and empty office buildings as it finds itself in recession. Third quarter growth shrank to 1.4 percent.
More than 1.1 billion people on this planet have no access to clean water. An estimated 1.8 million people die each year of the consequences.
Miami - In the first week of December the most important art fair in the USA, "Art Basel Miami" takes place and draws celebrities like George Clooney and Brad Pitt to the famous Setai Hotel. Room prices as of 1150 US$ per night.
London - John Sergeant, famous political journalist withdraws from Strictly Come Dancing, currently the show with the most international spin-offs. Sixteen celebrities took part this year. The show and its spin-offs, like Dancing with the Stars, sold to 38 countries.
Crisis - what crisis?
Monday 10 November 2008
The eye of the employer
Tuesday Nov 11th, 2008 CAC 40: -3.07%
18.20 On my way to the Carlton
Someone had forgotten about her.
We had noticed a sharp increase in business from this part of the world, but our sales force counted only one person who was halfway decent in Russian and everyone felt it would be unfair to draw him away from his own territory (Italy) every time a Russian customer called up.
We were not keeping in pace with the market and something had to be done.
Enter Olga. Graduate from the University of Petersburg, twenty-seven or thereabout. Olga was a new arrival in Switzerland having just married someone working in the chemical industry around Basel, and looking for a job. She was offered a temporary contract to help out in the Sales Support. After three months the sales showed a modest improvement in the admin side, but, ever since she had come along on some sales calls, a ginormous interest in Olga from both customers are colleagues alike.
Olga is tall, blond and has a figure that would make any man turn around behind the wheel and then hit a series of lampposts. It became very obvious that, whatever the topic of conversation, it was always Olga's assets rather than the customers' that managed to draw the attention from everyone present. They are simply too difficult to ignore. Weapons of mass distraction.
After six months, both Olga's contract and her marriage had expired, but someone had just forgotton to inform her and Olga kept coming to work. After a few weeks the mistake was discovered, whereupon her manager made a case with HR to offer her a permanent contract, reportedly after having had an appraisal talk with her that lasted long into the evening and was continued in the bar of the nearby Hilton.
So Olga is here to stay. And today I bumped into her (metaphorically this time, but there is hope) in the coffee room, where she asked me out for a drink in this highly fashionable after-work-party place.
I'm on my way to meet her now. Therefore this entry will be cut short. Very short. Life is, after all, a matter of priorities.
Thank you for your understanding.
Wednesday 5 November 2008
Some change
Wednesday Nov 5th, 2008 Nasdaq: -5.56%
18.52
No, we won't start off with Obama. But we'll get to him eventually, just read on.
On the tram going home I decide to get off one stop early and pop into a local Thai restaurant. It's an interesting place in more than one way. Its location is far from glorious. A square which houses two supermarkets, a florist, a post office and some smaller shops and is home to many homeless who spend the night on the benches, armed with newspapers, cans of beer and cigarettes. They smoke and drink continuously. In between they somehow speak, or more often, shout something that is unintelligible. There is women too, sleeping rough. Their "parties" produce a constant heap of litter that make the tramstop shelter a place to stay away from, but altogether there are very few reports of real irregularities.
The restaurant, which is primarily a take away with a few tables, is devoid of any pretention, but that was not always the case. It is small and light, with pictures of the Thai king high on the walls. Thai custom prescribes that the king must higher up than anything else, so that applies to the photo's too. A Thai flag decorates the other wall and real Singha beer is not served, but can be taken from the fridge and is then added to the bill, or check-bin in Thinglish.
Circumstances forced it to close by seven p.m. rather than staying open to receive proper diners, but since proper diners were few and far between, their empty seats were soon filled up with tramps from the street who never have money to eat but somehow always have something to spend on alcohol. They sat there, spend two hours on one beer, preferably shared and made sure
that no other customer would stay longer than absolutely necessary due to their penetrating stench.
The owners, a Thai woman and her friend from Santo Domingo then decided this wasn't worth the effort, especially as the lunch hour was well frequented by civil servants working for the council who has their offices nearby. The seven o'clock curfew was introduced and tramps no longer allowed after an incident with a drunken woman who reportedly refused to leave the premises before she had had "a real good fuck." Not surprisingly, nobody felt obliged which made her even angrier with the world. The police had to come and take her away, but not before she had managed to cause a substantial amount of damage to food, drinks and the nerves of other patrons. The locals still talk about it. Their own Albert Square.
The food is good though. Reasonably original ingredients but the taste a bit swissified. Still, it beats cooking after a heavy day in the office. I come in and am promptly greeted with the usual cheer and courtesy in a mixture of Thai, Spanish and English. Almost like a local. And if you're in before seven, they let you finish your meal and won't throw you out.
I grab a Singha and sit down to read a bit and wait for my food. Dolores, not her real name most probably, comes over to my table, points at a large picture of Obama on the front of my paper and asks: "he won?"
"He did."
"Oh, thank God. Thank God for that."
"What happen?" Lek (definitely not her real name) from the kitchen, turning around with a bottle of beer in her hands, bound for the only other person at a table.
"Obama president. I'm very happy." Dolores informs her. The man getting his beer is older, sloppily dressed and does not speak much. His shirt is not entirely clean and not entirely tucked in. My guess is that he belongs to one of the women, whereas he thinks it's the other way around. The phenomenon is well-known: over-aged, overweight and over their peak. The pensioner who finally found the love of his life, quite by chance thirty years his junior. The illusion is normally left in place until the source of their newly found happiness, his bank account, runs dry.
Lek gives me my Tom Yam Gai. "You like Obama? You thing good man?"
"Er... yes. It 's a bit early, but he seems clever enough."
"I like him", says Dolores. "He is handsome too."
I don't fancy men, but you can't deny it. He appeals to a lot of people, and the fact that he is good-looking didn't hurt him of course.
Lek hangs around by my table. "Dolores' boyflen." She whispers. "Since two week - he evely day here. But no eat. Only drink. Me no like."
"Hum." I comment.
"You know. He no good job. Has shop but nossomuchmoney-no. I think no good man for her. Wat you think?"
I don't think it wise to volunteer an opinion here, but I can see her point, especially now I notice he has fallen asleep while sitting in his chair. He snors softly, but still louder than the fridge.
His right hand squeezes an almost empty bottle of Heineken.
I try to change the subject. "It must be good for the States. Things will go better now. People have new hope." Lek still looks at Dolores' old man.
"You know what. " She says." Before already bad. Could not go worse. That's why people like Obama. Not because black. Because different."
Dolores comes from behind the counter and upon approaching us, spots her newly found happiness with his head now resting on his arms on the table, snoring a bit louder. She looks disappointed, then turns to us.
"I think we all need a change."
She has got my vote.
".....not because black. Because different."
18.52
No, we won't start off with Obama. But we'll get to him eventually, just read on.
On the tram going home I decide to get off one stop early and pop into a local Thai restaurant. It's an interesting place in more than one way. Its location is far from glorious. A square which houses two supermarkets, a florist, a post office and some smaller shops and is home to many homeless who spend the night on the benches, armed with newspapers, cans of beer and cigarettes. They smoke and drink continuously. In between they somehow speak, or more often, shout something that is unintelligible. There is women too, sleeping rough. Their "parties" produce a constant heap of litter that make the tramstop shelter a place to stay away from, but altogether there are very few reports of real irregularities.
The restaurant, which is primarily a take away with a few tables, is devoid of any pretention, but that was not always the case. It is small and light, with pictures of the Thai king high on the walls. Thai custom prescribes that the king must higher up than anything else, so that applies to the photo's too. A Thai flag decorates the other wall and real Singha beer is not served, but can be taken from the fridge and is then added to the bill, or check-bin in Thinglish.
Circumstances forced it to close by seven p.m. rather than staying open to receive proper diners, but since proper diners were few and far between, their empty seats were soon filled up with tramps from the street who never have money to eat but somehow always have something to spend on alcohol. They sat there, spend two hours on one beer, preferably shared and made sure
that no other customer would stay longer than absolutely necessary due to their penetrating stench.
The owners, a Thai woman and her friend from Santo Domingo then decided this wasn't worth the effort, especially as the lunch hour was well frequented by civil servants working for the council who has their offices nearby. The seven o'clock curfew was introduced and tramps no longer allowed after an incident with a drunken woman who reportedly refused to leave the premises before she had had "a real good fuck." Not surprisingly, nobody felt obliged which made her even angrier with the world. The police had to come and take her away, but not before she had managed to cause a substantial amount of damage to food, drinks and the nerves of other patrons. The locals still talk about it. Their own Albert Square.
The food is good though. Reasonably original ingredients but the taste a bit swissified. Still, it beats cooking after a heavy day in the office. I come in and am promptly greeted with the usual cheer and courtesy in a mixture of Thai, Spanish and English. Almost like a local. And if you're in before seven, they let you finish your meal and won't throw you out.
I grab a Singha and sit down to read a bit and wait for my food. Dolores, not her real name most probably, comes over to my table, points at a large picture of Obama on the front of my paper and asks: "he won?"
"He did."
"Oh, thank God. Thank God for that."
"What happen?" Lek (definitely not her real name) from the kitchen, turning around with a bottle of beer in her hands, bound for the only other person at a table.
"Obama president. I'm very happy." Dolores informs her. The man getting his beer is older, sloppily dressed and does not speak much. His shirt is not entirely clean and not entirely tucked in. My guess is that he belongs to one of the women, whereas he thinks it's the other way around. The phenomenon is well-known: over-aged, overweight and over their peak. The pensioner who finally found the love of his life, quite by chance thirty years his junior. The illusion is normally left in place until the source of their newly found happiness, his bank account, runs dry.
Lek gives me my Tom Yam Gai. "You like Obama? You thing good man?"
"Er... yes. It 's a bit early, but he seems clever enough."
"I like him", says Dolores. "He is handsome too."
I don't fancy men, but you can't deny it. He appeals to a lot of people, and the fact that he is good-looking didn't hurt him of course.
Lek hangs around by my table. "Dolores' boyflen." She whispers. "Since two week - he evely day here. But no eat. Only drink. Me no like."
"Hum." I comment.
"You know. He no good job. Has shop but nossomuchmoney-no. I think no good man for her. Wat you think?"
I don't think it wise to volunteer an opinion here, but I can see her point, especially now I notice he has fallen asleep while sitting in his chair. He snors softly, but still louder than the fridge.
His right hand squeezes an almost empty bottle of Heineken.
I try to change the subject. "It must be good for the States. Things will go better now. People have new hope." Lek still looks at Dolores' old man.
"You know what. " She says." Before already bad. Could not go worse. That's why people like Obama. Not because black. Because different."
Dolores comes from behind the counter and upon approaching us, spots her newly found happiness with his head now resting on his arms on the table, snoring a bit louder. She looks disappointed, then turns to us.
"I think we all need a change."
She has got my vote.
".....not because black. Because different."
Monday 3 November 2008
Podding about
Monday Nov 3rd, 2008 Dow Jones -0.58%
18.31
As I sit down and the tram picks up some speed I take my iPod Touch out of my pocket and start tapping. Other passengers get in, sit next to me, smell of smoke, get up again and leave the tram. I keep on playing games, look at the stock exchange updates, and so on. Nothing new. Nothing special. Another day of work behind me. On my way home, where the freezer keeps my meals for me till I decide it's comsumption time and condemn them to the microwave. Captain Bird's Eye on the stake.
Two women enter the tram. I reckon they'd be, what, forty-some, and definitely from South America. They sit down on the bench in front of me and talk without interruption.
I pick up pieces of the conversation.
....que me dices? No es verdad. Oye, lo que te digo...
....es un cameron! Y muy exigente tambien. Pero que guapo!...
Giggle-giggle.
I find Havana on my weather-around-the-world-software the iPod supplies free of charge and which keeps fascinating me for some reason, although its predictions are not better than some internet sites. But is also tells the current conditions: showers, 29 degrees Celcius.
I have excellent memories of my trips to Cuba. A fascinating place, if a little bit poor. No, scratch that "little bit". Understatements may be perceived as arrogant and if I start antagonising my readers in my fifth piece my career as blogger will go nowhere. Not good.
Anyway - Cuba. Great landscape, good climate and interesting people. The men too, before you ask.
I was also a bit disappointed by Havana, or rather by the state it was in (dilapidated). I was also enchanted by Havana's state of the art-bygone. The camaras de musica, museos, Hemingways' local and the obligatory mojito there. Every restaurant had a live band which might as well have been dead, as their repertoire consisted of endless variations on the same tunes, Hasta siempre commandante being the most popular. I did it all, and enjoyed it immensely.
One evening in Santiago de Cuba, a town in the Southeast, I had an interesting encounter which I would like to "share with you" as the buzzword goes. In fact, I was to have two more interesting encounters in the same town soon after but we'll skip those pages for now.
In the early evening I enjoyed a drink on a terrace of what might have been the only halfway decent restaurant in the city, when I got into conversation with a group of four. All of them obviously local, and me being very obviously not, the conversation turned soon to music and parties, and two hours and two mojito's later I was on my way to a party privado.
On our mopeds we reached an ordinary house in an ordinary street in the outskirts of Santiago, where we went into a patio to find a dozen or so younger people talking, drinking, and enjoying the music, which came from an electric record player. A real disc jockey stood behind the a small table with an air of professionalism and what could not have been more than ten vinyl records. I recognised the labels with the dog. "His masters noise" he jokingly pointed out as he explained how he got them from Havana where he goes twice a year to update his already impressive collection. A master indeed.
As I sat down at the table with my newly acquired friends someone came over and asked if we would like a drink. I felt obliged to pay a round and ordered five beers. He disappeared and we got up to dance.
After half an hour I carefully enquired what happened to the waiter, who had taken my money as an advance payment. As it turned out, he re-appeared after forty-five minutes with exactly five bottles of beer. "This is not an official bar", someone explained, "he goes on his moped to the other side of town and buys them there." Upon my enquiry as to why nobody put orders together and got more rounds in one go, he looked at me as if he was faced with yet another CIA invasion.
I gave him more money and ordered ten beers this time. We stayed till three in the morning, had a great time dancing but, because of the special moped -beer delivery service, it proved biologically impossible to get drunk. Since that night, I like to think that it's not just Castro's political ideas that stood in the way of the Cuban economy.
The women get up and leave the tram in the Tunnelstrasse, their empty seats being taken by two younger men in business suits and manbags on their backs. I never understood this rage - people who look like they spend the entire day at their desk equipping themselves as if they will climb the Himalaya in the coffee break. A mobile phone blares out a few bars of the most outrageous rap and one of them starts to talk in what I recognise to be Polish.
18.31
As I sit down and the tram picks up some speed I take my iPod Touch out of my pocket and start tapping. Other passengers get in, sit next to me, smell of smoke, get up again and leave the tram. I keep on playing games, look at the stock exchange updates, and so on. Nothing new. Nothing special. Another day of work behind me. On my way home, where the freezer keeps my meals for me till I decide it's comsumption time and condemn them to the microwave. Captain Bird's Eye on the stake.
Two women enter the tram. I reckon they'd be, what, forty-some, and definitely from South America. They sit down on the bench in front of me and talk without interruption.
I pick up pieces of the conversation.
....que me dices? No es verdad. Oye, lo que te digo...
....es un cameron! Y muy exigente tambien. Pero que guapo!...
Giggle-giggle.
I find Havana on my weather-around-the-world-software the iPod supplies free of charge and which keeps fascinating me for some reason, although its predictions are not better than some internet sites. But is also tells the current conditions: showers, 29 degrees Celcius.
I have excellent memories of my trips to Cuba. A fascinating place, if a little bit poor. No, scratch that "little bit". Understatements may be perceived as arrogant and if I start antagonising my readers in my fifth piece my career as blogger will go nowhere. Not good.
Anyway - Cuba. Great landscape, good climate and interesting people. The men too, before you ask.
I was also a bit disappointed by Havana, or rather by the state it was in (dilapidated). I was also enchanted by Havana's state of the art-bygone. The camaras de musica, museos, Hemingways' local and the obligatory mojito there. Every restaurant had a live band which might as well have been dead, as their repertoire consisted of endless variations on the same tunes, Hasta siempre commandante being the most popular. I did it all, and enjoyed it immensely.
One evening in Santiago de Cuba, a town in the Southeast, I had an interesting encounter which I would like to "share with you" as the buzzword goes. In fact, I was to have two more interesting encounters in the same town soon after but we'll skip those pages for now.
In the early evening I enjoyed a drink on a terrace of what might have been the only halfway decent restaurant in the city, when I got into conversation with a group of four. All of them obviously local, and me being very obviously not, the conversation turned soon to music and parties, and two hours and two mojito's later I was on my way to a party privado.
On our mopeds we reached an ordinary house in an ordinary street in the outskirts of Santiago, where we went into a patio to find a dozen or so younger people talking, drinking, and enjoying the music, which came from an electric record player. A real disc jockey stood behind the a small table with an air of professionalism and what could not have been more than ten vinyl records. I recognised the labels with the dog. "His masters noise" he jokingly pointed out as he explained how he got them from Havana where he goes twice a year to update his already impressive collection. A master indeed.
As I sat down at the table with my newly acquired friends someone came over and asked if we would like a drink. I felt obliged to pay a round and ordered five beers. He disappeared and we got up to dance.
After half an hour I carefully enquired what happened to the waiter, who had taken my money as an advance payment. As it turned out, he re-appeared after forty-five minutes with exactly five bottles of beer. "This is not an official bar", someone explained, "he goes on his moped to the other side of town and buys them there." Upon my enquiry as to why nobody put orders together and got more rounds in one go, he looked at me as if he was faced with yet another CIA invasion.
I gave him more money and ordered ten beers this time. We stayed till three in the morning, had a great time dancing but, because of the special moped -beer delivery service, it proved biologically impossible to get drunk. Since that night, I like to think that it's not just Castro's political ideas that stood in the way of the Cuban economy.
The women get up and leave the tram in the Tunnelstrasse, their empty seats being taken by two younger men in business suits and manbags on their backs. I never understood this rage - people who look like they spend the entire day at their desk equipping themselves as if they will climb the Himalaya in the coffee break. A mobile phone blares out a few bars of the most outrageous rap and one of them starts to talk in what I recognise to be Polish.
The iPod has found Warsaw and reports unbroken sunshine with 15 degrees.
On my many business trips to Warsaw I had always been enchanted by two aspects of this city, one of them being the high quality of the Japanese and Korean restaurants it already featured in the beginning of the nineties. A lover of oriental food and keen karaoke fan, I astonished my colleagues with the stamina for sake and sukiaki as well as determination with the karaoke, in spite of the sheer lack of any audible talent whatsoever. But a good voice is not what karaoke is all about.
On one occasion in Warsaw, on a morning after one-of-those-nights, I set out in the early morning to visit the Polish telecom company who was housed in the outskirts of Warsaw in a building that blended perfectly into the equally grey and gloomy background it was built in.
After having spoken to a square built old woman who manned a wooden desk with an optimistic sign saying "reception" we were met and taken into the lift by a woman in old clothes and an even older face, which did not look too cheerful. My colleague, who was from Antwerp, said in Flemish: "This one could do with one of those job-motivation seminars", upon which the woman immediately retorted, in equally fluent Flemish: "So would you if you would work here!" It appeared she had been living in Belgium for many years when she was widowed and had gone back to Warsaw. My colleague's silence was embarassingly loud.
"What did we learn from this", I asked him as we stepped out of the building after our meeting with the Polish telecom. "Never assume the obvious, I suppose."
Indeed. Or: keep your mouth shut in lifts.
Singapore: 32 degrees, scattered showers.
Saturday 1 November 2008
Surveying
Friday, Oct 31st, 2008 XETRA DAX: + 2.44%
10.34 meeting room Sydney, B wing
"Tools and methodologies....65 points".
"Well, at least that's a bit better".
With me in the room are three fellow managers, the director and Ana-for-the-minutes. We are evaluating an employee survey held three months ago, so it must have been what - July I think. Yes, July. The weather must have been splendid, Lehman Brothers still alive and I blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.
Ah......July.............
Nick taps his ballpoint on the desk. "Next point: loyalty. Seventy-four percent would accept an offer from elsewhere if the pay were better. Think about it!"
We already had. Prior to the meeting my comrades and I had met in the coffee room, where we had understood and agreed not to mention it.
"Any ideas what might be the cause?" All of us study the coloured graphs in front of us with intense concentration now. Dear God, let's not go there. Please help us to to forget Maslow's first level. And please, please, please, don't let anybody say "money".
"Er....money, perhaps..." Robert breaks the cordon sanitaire, fumbling his tie.
Nick looks around before reacting, but the rest of us know better than to speak up.
"Yes, well. There is nothing we can do there. We obviously are not going to pay more."
Obviously.
"And besides that," he continues, "we pay industry standard, even slightly above!"
According to the statistics he's not wrong. On average, the salaries are not bad, but that works for the front guys only. Operations and back office don't get bonusses anywhere near inciting, and salaries are not inflation protected in Switzerland. So if prices go up you're screwed.
Nick looks around, not done with his fishing trip. "Any other suggestions?"
After an ominous silence we move on. "Next up: open and constructive atmosphere. This is even worse. Eighty percent does not feel free to utter any suggestions for improvement. We look terrible here, compared with Client Advisory, not to mention Sales Support. I'd really like to know where this comes from."
We all know where this comes from, but none of us are in a particularly talkative mood this morning. Most of us need this job to pay the rent. Or the alimony. Or both.
Suzanne decides to have a go. "Hum-hum..... It has been suggested in my team that fear of repercussion may play a role here."
"What? Who said that?....(softer) I'll get the little..."
"That's rediculous!" This time, the bandwagon fills up quickly.
"I mean...honestly..............." "How can they say that............."
"Can't we just ask them?" John this time.
"Ask who? Everybody?...Hm.....don't know....."
But Nick won't have it.. "Once we open the discussion, they'll want to know the results. I don't think this would be wise."
"You mean they haven't seen this yet?" Robert, you've got a lot to learn.
Nick shakes his head. "Nobody but us. Oh and Karl of course." Who is not happy about how Nick's people have judged him, especially since Sales Support seems to be a pretty good place to work, going by the figures. Nick sees his bonus going down the drain and does not care for that.
"All I care about of course, is everybody to feel really motivated. Does anyone have any suggestions as to how we can find out why our people ...er....voted this way?" Of course we do. But with only being two months in this job and having had no warning he was going to work for a Glaswegian, Robert once again feels compelled to chip in.
"How about revealing only some of the results and have a discussion in the next departmental meeting?" Now there's thought. Nick rubs his chin. "Hmmmmm........."
This is being taken as an "all clear". John takes up the ball. "Let's orchestrate a spontaneous discussion. Then we'll find out why they said what they said."
"And who said it," I add, being no longer able to control my irony.
"Quite" says Nick, on who my feeble attempt is apparently lost.
"Excellent idea. Last point. Personal appreciation. Something about impersonal leadership, no recognition, blablabla ....not important. We'll skip this now. Barbara, please put John's proposal in the minutes.."
"I'm Ana. Barbara is still ill this week".
"Yeah whatever. The long and short of it is: we need to organise this spontaneous discussion. John and Suzanne volunteer as moderators. I want everyone else to come up with a scenario for next meeting. We can rehearse then, so things don't run out of hand. Remember: it must be watertight. We can have a discussion, as long as it's a controlled process. And please see to it that everybody feels they are valued as employees after this event."
This sounds like an open goal. I decide to take my chance. "Maybe we can then have another survey in a few months. That one's got to come out better!"
Nick stares at me with very cold eyes.
"Don't overdo it now".
10.34 meeting room Sydney, B wing
"Tools and methodologies....65 points".
"Well, at least that's a bit better".
With me in the room are three fellow managers, the director and Ana-for-the-minutes. We are evaluating an employee survey held three months ago, so it must have been what - July I think. Yes, July. The weather must have been splendid, Lehman Brothers still alive and I blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.
Ah......July.............
Nick taps his ballpoint on the desk. "Next point: loyalty. Seventy-four percent would accept an offer from elsewhere if the pay were better. Think about it!"
We already had. Prior to the meeting my comrades and I had met in the coffee room, where we had understood and agreed not to mention it.
"Any ideas what might be the cause?" All of us study the coloured graphs in front of us with intense concentration now. Dear God, let's not go there. Please help us to to forget Maslow's first level. And please, please, please, don't let anybody say "money".
"Er....money, perhaps..." Robert breaks the cordon sanitaire, fumbling his tie.
Nick looks around before reacting, but the rest of us know better than to speak up.
"Yes, well. There is nothing we can do there. We obviously are not going to pay more."
Obviously.
"And besides that," he continues, "we pay industry standard, even slightly above!"
According to the statistics he's not wrong. On average, the salaries are not bad, but that works for the front guys only. Operations and back office don't get bonusses anywhere near inciting, and salaries are not inflation protected in Switzerland. So if prices go up you're screwed.
Nick looks around, not done with his fishing trip. "Any other suggestions?"
After an ominous silence we move on. "Next up: open and constructive atmosphere. This is even worse. Eighty percent does not feel free to utter any suggestions for improvement. We look terrible here, compared with Client Advisory, not to mention Sales Support. I'd really like to know where this comes from."
We all know where this comes from, but none of us are in a particularly talkative mood this morning. Most of us need this job to pay the rent. Or the alimony. Or both.
Suzanne decides to have a go. "Hum-hum..... It has been suggested in my team that fear of repercussion may play a role here."
"What? Who said that?....(softer) I'll get the little..."
"That's rediculous!" This time, the bandwagon fills up quickly.
"I mean...honestly..............." "How can they say that............."
"Can't we just ask them?" John this time.
"Ask who? Everybody?...Hm.....don't know....."
But Nick won't have it.. "Once we open the discussion, they'll want to know the results. I don't think this would be wise."
"You mean they haven't seen this yet?" Robert, you've got a lot to learn.
Nick shakes his head. "Nobody but us. Oh and Karl of course." Who is not happy about how Nick's people have judged him, especially since Sales Support seems to be a pretty good place to work, going by the figures. Nick sees his bonus going down the drain and does not care for that.
"All I care about of course, is everybody to feel really motivated. Does anyone have any suggestions as to how we can find out why our people ...er....voted this way?" Of course we do. But with only being two months in this job and having had no warning he was going to work for a Glaswegian, Robert once again feels compelled to chip in.
"How about revealing only some of the results and have a discussion in the next departmental meeting?" Now there's thought. Nick rubs his chin. "Hmmmmm........."
This is being taken as an "all clear". John takes up the ball. "Let's orchestrate a spontaneous discussion. Then we'll find out why they said what they said."
"And who said it," I add, being no longer able to control my irony.
"Quite" says Nick, on who my feeble attempt is apparently lost.
"Excellent idea. Last point. Personal appreciation. Something about impersonal leadership, no recognition, blablabla ....not important. We'll skip this now. Barbara, please put John's proposal in the minutes.."
"I'm Ana. Barbara is still ill this week".
"Yeah whatever. The long and short of it is: we need to organise this spontaneous discussion. John and Suzanne volunteer as moderators. I want everyone else to come up with a scenario for next meeting. We can rehearse then, so things don't run out of hand. Remember: it must be watertight. We can have a discussion, as long as it's a controlled process. And please see to it that everybody feels they are valued as employees after this event."
This sounds like an open goal. I decide to take my chance. "Maybe we can then have another survey in a few months. That one's got to come out better!"
Nick stares at me with very cold eyes.
"Don't overdo it now".
Friday 31 October 2008
Reality check
Wednesday, Oct 29th, 2008 BEL20 + 6.56%
10.19
Paul comes over to my desk. I can see his desk from where I'm sitting, when I turn my head slightly. And I had noticed an increased interest from over there. His head turning away just a little too late, the woman opposite (who frankly I'd prefer to talk to, but she does not work for me) glancing in my direction. Something's definitely up. I dread to think what it might be. I have this meeting at eleven and need to prepare some Excel sheets, a good opening sentence, one or two explanations and a plausible excuse for a cock-up. But, as it appears, no such luck.
"Can I talk to you for a moment"? Silly question. You are talking to me, and it's likely to be longer than a moment. But do go on. I'm here anyway.
"It's rather personal. Or perhaps private". Paul is very proud of his English. I don't blame him. My German is okay, but not more than that. To show my sympathy, I gesture to a nearby meeting room.
"See, I haven't had a pay rise for three years now...."
Oh God, here we go.
It's appraisal time. The bad news is that I have my once-a-year opportunity to tell my team I love them (so that they will stay) and at the same time convey the message so carefully given to me by my boss that unfortunately, due to market circumstances, there is no room for to provide my beloved resources with a bit of extra support to fight the inflation (so that they will leave, given half a chance). The good news is, there is no such thing as half a chance. The credit crunch has decended in full force and (shame, oh bloody shame) did not skip Switzerland this time. On the contrary. Our largest competitor got hit really hard and as a consequence their staff is knocking on our doors with alarming frequency, persistence and desperation. I quickly decide not to waste my remaining 39 minutes explaining this to Paul, although he is a good project leader. I will tell him to switch on his telly, read the papers and get a life.
But then, in the nick of time, I hesitate.
Suddenly I'm back in the course I had last year. "Advanced Leadership" or something similar. And the year before that, although that one was called differently then. The practice sessions on "how to...." and the first practical hints flash in front of me."Don't sit opposite, but around corners. Don't interrupt or break eye contact. Don't give in to anything, but do give the impression that you take them seriously. Remember, they are your most important assets."
While Paul talks, I realise he has a wife and children, unlike me. Equally unlike me, he has been in the same position for four years now. Paul likes stability. Except, so it would appear, when it comes to his salary. I sympathize. It could be more. He did not do too badly this year. But I have no budget and five other Pauls to appraise. Or more precisely: three Pauls and two Paulines. Or is it Paulettes?
He has been going on for twelve minutes now, and I really need to get moving. I nod, mumble "I see", "hm", and "of course" and let him finish one of his sheer endless sentences. Then, as he stops to grasp some air, I cease the opportunity.
"I understand your position Paul. And believe me, I wish I could give you good news. But I can't. We don't have the means at the moment. You know what it is out there. But let me reassure you of one thing. The moment things get stabilised, I want to have another conversation. There is no way we would have been where we are today were it not for you. I want you to realise that." And so on and so forth.
But I don't say that. Instead, in a flash of reality, selfishness and panic (7 minutes to my meeting now, and there is a board member in there, for chrissakes) I look him straight in the eye and ask him: "A pay rise. Hum. Have you visited the planet Earth lately?"
The reaction is one that amazes me more than anything else. For a moment he freezes and gazes at me in utter astonishment. Then he burst out in a nervous laugh, turns around and says: "Well, it was worth a try..."
See? Get a life.
Now I remember: it's Paula.
10.19
Paul comes over to my desk. I can see his desk from where I'm sitting, when I turn my head slightly. And I had noticed an increased interest from over there. His head turning away just a little too late, the woman opposite (who frankly I'd prefer to talk to, but she does not work for me) glancing in my direction. Something's definitely up. I dread to think what it might be. I have this meeting at eleven and need to prepare some Excel sheets, a good opening sentence, one or two explanations and a plausible excuse for a cock-up. But, as it appears, no such luck.
"Can I talk to you for a moment"? Silly question. You are talking to me, and it's likely to be longer than a moment. But do go on. I'm here anyway.
"It's rather personal. Or perhaps private". Paul is very proud of his English. I don't blame him. My German is okay, but not more than that. To show my sympathy, I gesture to a nearby meeting room.
"See, I haven't had a pay rise for three years now...."
Oh God, here we go.
It's appraisal time. The bad news is that I have my once-a-year opportunity to tell my team I love them (so that they will stay) and at the same time convey the message so carefully given to me by my boss that unfortunately, due to market circumstances, there is no room for to provide my beloved resources with a bit of extra support to fight the inflation (so that they will leave, given half a chance). The good news is, there is no such thing as half a chance. The credit crunch has decended in full force and (shame, oh bloody shame) did not skip Switzerland this time. On the contrary. Our largest competitor got hit really hard and as a consequence their staff is knocking on our doors with alarming frequency, persistence and desperation. I quickly decide not to waste my remaining 39 minutes explaining this to Paul, although he is a good project leader. I will tell him to switch on his telly, read the papers and get a life.
But then, in the nick of time, I hesitate.
Suddenly I'm back in the course I had last year. "Advanced Leadership" or something similar. And the year before that, although that one was called differently then. The practice sessions on "how to...." and the first practical hints flash in front of me."Don't sit opposite, but around corners. Don't interrupt or break eye contact. Don't give in to anything, but do give the impression that you take them seriously. Remember, they are your most important assets."
While Paul talks, I realise he has a wife and children, unlike me. Equally unlike me, he has been in the same position for four years now. Paul likes stability. Except, so it would appear, when it comes to his salary. I sympathize. It could be more. He did not do too badly this year. But I have no budget and five other Pauls to appraise. Or more precisely: three Pauls and two Paulines. Or is it Paulettes?
He has been going on for twelve minutes now, and I really need to get moving. I nod, mumble "I see", "hm", and "of course" and let him finish one of his sheer endless sentences. Then, as he stops to grasp some air, I cease the opportunity.
"I understand your position Paul. And believe me, I wish I could give you good news. But I can't. We don't have the means at the moment. You know what it is out there. But let me reassure you of one thing. The moment things get stabilised, I want to have another conversation. There is no way we would have been where we are today were it not for you. I want you to realise that." And so on and so forth.
But I don't say that. Instead, in a flash of reality, selfishness and panic (7 minutes to my meeting now, and there is a board member in there, for chrissakes) I look him straight in the eye and ask him: "A pay rise. Hum. Have you visited the planet Earth lately?"
The reaction is one that amazes me more than anything else. For a moment he freezes and gazes at me in utter astonishment. Then he burst out in a nervous laugh, turns around and says: "Well, it was worth a try..."
See? Get a life.
Now I remember: it's Paula.
Licensed to sex
Tuesday, Oct 28th, 2008 Nikkei + 6.41%
08.22
A free tabloid paper in the tram to work points out, as a well needed change to the usual anti-immigration rhetoric that the latest James Bond, which is to open soon, is more Swiss and less Bond than ever before. I say...
I saw Daniel Craig last week on Jonathan Ross. On his show that is. Looked a decent, likeable sort of chap. Enjoys his success in a down-to-earth manner. Kind of guy you don't mind having a beer with. So unlike like Mr. Ross himself who can be a right prat at times.
I stopped going to see James Bond movies after Roger Moore passed on his part to someone else who looked much less experienced but a lot more boring. I had stopped really enjoying them long before. Come to think of it, the only really good one was "From Russia with love". That was genuine, authentic. And of course I have a passion for long distance, luxury trains.
"More Swiss" allegedly means sensational chases through familiar landscapes, a little bit more violence but at the same time more emotion and personality shown, reportedly in his dialogues with M. But the weirdest thing is this. Apparently Bond, when given the chance to strike up his reward in the form of a Bond girl, settles for just a kiss. Whatever happened to the old "make that two hours, Moneypenny"...? How times have changed.
We don't go to see Bond films for sex, of course. But even the Swiss were disappointed at this lack of erotic suggestion, which is so out of touch with nowadays Zurich life. In the city where a decade ago there was practically a curfew after ten p.m., party is the name of the game now, and the scenes have changed beyond recognition.
The same rag published a story two pages further about the ease with which the youth enter into sexual activities, and indeed prostitution of all sorts. Last Sunday, a fourteen year old girl set out to the cinema with a her boyfriend and a colleague of his. Having arrived at the box office, they found the tickets to be slightly over their budget, but the somewhat elder colleague offered to pay for the girl, in return for a blow job. She agreed and complied, but there was some "domestic" trouble with the boyfriend later. An interview with a hastily invited social worker revealed that children (sorry, but that's what they are) of that age tend to have more and more "consumer oriented" sex than ever before. His view was that this was certainly no exception. Now to put things in perspective, the cinema ticket in question was over 20 Francs. The proof that some things are still cheap in Switzerland, if you don't mind child labour.
A quantum of solace for the Gary Glitters of this world.
less Bond - more Swiss
08.22
A free tabloid paper in the tram to work points out, as a well needed change to the usual anti-immigration rhetoric that the latest James Bond, which is to open soon, is more Swiss and less Bond than ever before. I say...
I saw Daniel Craig last week on Jonathan Ross. On his show that is. Looked a decent, likeable sort of chap. Enjoys his success in a down-to-earth manner. Kind of guy you don't mind having a beer with. So unlike like Mr. Ross himself who can be a right prat at times.
I stopped going to see James Bond movies after Roger Moore passed on his part to someone else who looked much less experienced but a lot more boring. I had stopped really enjoying them long before. Come to think of it, the only really good one was "From Russia with love". That was genuine, authentic. And of course I have a passion for long distance, luxury trains.
"More Swiss" allegedly means sensational chases through familiar landscapes, a little bit more violence but at the same time more emotion and personality shown, reportedly in his dialogues with M. But the weirdest thing is this. Apparently Bond, when given the chance to strike up his reward in the form of a Bond girl, settles for just a kiss. Whatever happened to the old "make that two hours, Moneypenny"...? How times have changed.
We don't go to see Bond films for sex, of course. But even the Swiss were disappointed at this lack of erotic suggestion, which is so out of touch with nowadays Zurich life. In the city where a decade ago there was practically a curfew after ten p.m., party is the name of the game now, and the scenes have changed beyond recognition.
The same rag published a story two pages further about the ease with which the youth enter into sexual activities, and indeed prostitution of all sorts. Last Sunday, a fourteen year old girl set out to the cinema with a her boyfriend and a colleague of his. Having arrived at the box office, they found the tickets to be slightly over their budget, but the somewhat elder colleague offered to pay for the girl, in return for a blow job. She agreed and complied, but there was some "domestic" trouble with the boyfriend later. An interview with a hastily invited social worker revealed that children (sorry, but that's what they are) of that age tend to have more and more "consumer oriented" sex than ever before. His view was that this was certainly no exception. Now to put things in perspective, the cinema ticket in question was over 20 Francs. The proof that some things are still cheap in Switzerland, if you don't mind child labour.
A quantum of solace for the Gary Glitters of this world.
less Bond - more Swiss
Gruezi Zürich
Monday, Oct 27th, 2008 Hang Seng -12.7 %
06.47 a.m.
I don't really need an alarm clock. Ever since I came to Zürich, now more than a year ago, I had to get up more or less at the same time. The Swiss are early starters, and meetings before nine are the rule rather than the exception. For some reason, they didn't tell me about that in the application procedure. Maybe they were afraid I wouldn't take the job. Maybe they thought it wasn't worth mentioning. Maybe it's normal for them. Who knows, what they think...But then, a year ago everything was different. After a number of years working here there and everywhere as a freelancer, I landed myself an offer for a permanent job with one of the worlds largest private banks. Apart from the salary, which was average at best, the perks looked good and more importantly, it came with a pension plan which would hopefully allow me to fill up the gap that my lifestyle of lucrative, but fast changing contracts in even faster changing locations had created. The opportunity to live in Zurich was appealing too. The city with the best quality of life in Europe, according to a survey I once read in the papers.
I don't know who they asked for that survey, but it must have been a smoker. Only in theory the air in Switzerland is cleaner. In practice, they smoke everywhere, except in the office where it is forbidden. But restaurants, bars, tram stops, platforms and any footpath are not granted the luxury of normal air that other people (here indicated as "non-smokers", as if smoking is the standard and the "nons" are the wet blankets) can't refuse to inhale. Whereas the rest of the world has slowly come to deem this habit anti-social, the Swiss label it as "freedom". As with a lot of other things, it might take a while before reality sinks in.
Getting up at 6.47 means making a cup of coffee, going into the living room of my small, but adequate apartment and switch on the telly, only to watch CNBC poor yet another load of miserable figures from the Asian markets overnight performance into our lives. After the first three minutes I figure I lost another two-thousand Euros from my already dried up savings and investments, I switch the damn thing off and in the best of moods (not) I make my way to the bathroom for a triple s, pick a suit and tie that hopefully impresses my superiors to the degree where they don't fire me just yet, and head for the bank where a new day of cost-cutting, downsizing and other extraordinary measures are waiting for me.
Welcome to Zurich. Beautifully situated on the north side of it's lake with the same name. More jewellers than supermarkets. And the trams go on the dot. I need them, as I can't afford a car.
You see I'm not really a banker, as in: I don't own a bank. I merely work for one.
And by the way, I'm not really Swiss either.
06.47 a.m.
I don't really need an alarm clock. Ever since I came to Zürich, now more than a year ago, I had to get up more or less at the same time. The Swiss are early starters, and meetings before nine are the rule rather than the exception. For some reason, they didn't tell me about that in the application procedure. Maybe they were afraid I wouldn't take the job. Maybe they thought it wasn't worth mentioning. Maybe it's normal for them. Who knows, what they think...But then, a year ago everything was different. After a number of years working here there and everywhere as a freelancer, I landed myself an offer for a permanent job with one of the worlds largest private banks. Apart from the salary, which was average at best, the perks looked good and more importantly, it came with a pension plan which would hopefully allow me to fill up the gap that my lifestyle of lucrative, but fast changing contracts in even faster changing locations had created. The opportunity to live in Zurich was appealing too. The city with the best quality of life in Europe, according to a survey I once read in the papers.
I don't know who they asked for that survey, but it must have been a smoker. Only in theory the air in Switzerland is cleaner. In practice, they smoke everywhere, except in the office where it is forbidden. But restaurants, bars, tram stops, platforms and any footpath are not granted the luxury of normal air that other people (here indicated as "non-smokers", as if smoking is the standard and the "nons" are the wet blankets) can't refuse to inhale. Whereas the rest of the world has slowly come to deem this habit anti-social, the Swiss label it as "freedom". As with a lot of other things, it might take a while before reality sinks in.
Getting up at 6.47 means making a cup of coffee, going into the living room of my small, but adequate apartment and switch on the telly, only to watch CNBC poor yet another load of miserable figures from the Asian markets overnight performance into our lives. After the first three minutes I figure I lost another two-thousand Euros from my already dried up savings and investments, I switch the damn thing off and in the best of moods (not) I make my way to the bathroom for a triple s, pick a suit and tie that hopefully impresses my superiors to the degree where they don't fire me just yet, and head for the bank where a new day of cost-cutting, downsizing and other extraordinary measures are waiting for me.
Welcome to Zurich. Beautifully situated on the north side of it's lake with the same name. More jewellers than supermarkets. And the trams go on the dot. I need them, as I can't afford a car.
You see I'm not really a banker, as in: I don't own a bank. I merely work for one.
And by the way, I'm not really Swiss either.
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