More Natural Disasters

Here's the sequel to last week's blog post about the ridiculous travel arrangements for my favorite travel companion and I. We managed to get reunited after an additional 24 hours of him sleeping in airports, but unfortunately between his feet touching ground in Scotland and his feet completing a 26.2-mile marathon, there was only enough room for dinner and a quick nap.

This is what we get for choosing a marathon in Scotland, though: gale force winds, hail, and yet enough sun to give us both sunburns.

We both finished, though, and in good time. Maybe limping a little. (Or a lot.) We couldn't quite relax, however, until we were safely in Morocco with my sister, drinking mint tea with our feet up.

This is where the volcanic ash cloud comes in.

Those gale force winds kept on even after the run, which complicated things at the airport. One waitress casually mentioned that the roof had blown off part of the building and onto the runway, giving us nice little heart attacks over dinner. Our plane was severely delayed, sitting just a few miles away in Glasgow waiting for a break in the weather to come pick us up and shuttle us back to London in time to make our connection the next morning to Casablanca.

If we missed our flight, there might still be time to get to London before our 10 am to Casa. Except, of course, if the ash cloud cancelled all flights from Edinburgh entirely.

Ash clouds! Honestly, after all of this, you'd think we wouldn't have to worry about ash clouds!

We were still at the bar chatting with a Scottish ice hockey player when our flight board blinked from DELAYED to FINAL CALL and started flashing red. They weren't kidding. We chugged our drinks and hobbled towards the plane just as they were closing the doors, which must have looked both hilarious and pathetic to our flight attendants. I'm writing now from the safety of Morocco and still hobbling, but at least there's a hammam in my near future instead of an airport floor to sleep on.

Now let's hope the ash cloud settles in enough time for us to get back up to London by the end of the week. I never thought I'd find my travel plans at the mercy of a volcano, but . . . then again, I shouldn't be surprised at anything anymore.

Travelin' Man

It has not been an auspicious year for travel. I really ought to pay more attention before I book my flights.

Bad enough was last month when I completely missed my flight to Morocco for very weak reasons. (I just can't read emails.) Now my favorite travel companion seems to have caught some of my bad luck.

First, he left Boston on his way to Philadelphia. His plane was delayed for two hours, which means he missed his connection to London. After sleeping in the airport, the airline put him on a plane to Orlando, Florida, which was nice, but then neglected to book him an actual seat on the flight from Orlando to London, which was not so nice. Oh, and that flight he was supposed to take from London to Edinburgh was long gone, so he's had to pay for another. Finally, he argued himself onto a flight to London and spent twelve hours sleeping on a plane, another eight hours waiting in the airport, is finally on his way to Scotland where he will land, sleep in a hostel, and run 26.2 miles tomorrow morning.

Post-race, thank goodness we've booked ourselves on a nice relaxing vacation . . . in . . . Africa.

I think next time we'll consider a staycation.

King's Cross

I've done it again. I've begun another popular book series and am now roped in to spending money on the next two or three books. At least last time it was only a trilogy. Now, I'm started George R. R. Martin's Game of Thrones, of which I'm told there are six books, each 700 pages or more. I'm 85% through the first one after two days of reading, according to my Kindle, which tells you how badly I'm hooked.

The only problem is, I'm in Scotland today. That's not a bad problem by itself. I love Scotland. It's cold at the moment, and I'm far too sober, but otherwise it's absolutely beautiful.

I'm just a little annoyed because, after reading my novel about noble kings and princesses and honourable knights and dragons and warring families, I decided to take a little walk. So I went outside, circled the castle, sampled the fine dragon's ale by the Royal Mile just off of Fleshmarket Close, made my way to Horse's Wynd to view King Arthur's Seat, and . . .

Yeah, doesn't reading that just make you feel a little bit nerdy?

Because I felt a little bit nerdy.

Even though, it's not my fault this is what real Scots do!

Still, I thought I'd better switch to reading something else for a while. Wouldn't want to get carried away.

It Could Be A Long Summer

Lectures are over! Now I have nothing to do for the next three months except write my dissertation. (And run a marathon, and go to Morocco, and attend a seminar on digital publishing in Florence, and...)

I cracked open a book this morning to take stock of the dissertation process, and the first thing I read was this:

There will be occasions during your dissertation journey when other - friends, family members, boyfriends/girlfriends, partners, spouses, etc. - will make demands upon your time. On such occasions you need to remind yourself that your priority is now your dissertation - if you respond to every request for help from those around you then you will have difficulty in concentrating on your work. Self-centredness is a quality that will serve you well during your dissertation. [Biggam, Succeeding with your Master's Dissertation, p. 9]

Oh. Well.

You know? Even if it's the truth? Do you really have to put in writing how reclusive and boring I have to be all summer?

Foreign Concept

Eurovision.

Unless you're European, absolutely baffling.

I was in Greece a few years ago after their candidate had won, and I had no real understanding of why some guy's gyration-happy music video was all over the airwaves. "Eurovision!" everyone said, and I said, yeah, that's nice, but I personally found the tune a little naff.

Then I was told, no, you really have to see the whole contest. So I tuned in.

And witnessed the pride of such countries as Boznia-Herzegovina ...

... and Georgia ...

... and wondered at what the hell was wrong with Moldova when they sent these guys ...

For goodness' sake, there is a unicyclist in the band. Her instrument? Unicycle and pretend trumpet. (When the UK gave them eight points at the end, the BBC commentator sighed, "Britain. You're not taking this seriously.")

Then there was a rap number which was distinctly Greek ...


... and France sent an opera singer.

Mostly I felt just . . . sorry . . . for Ireland.

Then, at the end of every year you see how each of the countries vote. It's absolutely brilliant. Usually, it seems, Russia feels guilty and votes for whichever Eastern European country they're not fussing with (Azerbaijan this year), the UK usually tosses a few points to Ireland, no one votes for Switzerland, the Scandinavian countries all vote for one another, Cyprus votes for Greece (take that, Turkey!), and loads of countries actually vote for Moldova!?!

I loved it. And yet, as I went downstairs to grab a snack from the kitchen and found my Spanish flatmate watching the show unironically, I realised . . . I am such a foreigner. Dear god.

Something Corporate

Now, I'm no stranger to corporations. I don't fear big companies. I don't even fear talking a few numbers - witness my presentation just last Tuesday in which I outlined the economic viability of a title for which I built the Profit and Loss spreadsheet myself, line by line. These things don't frighten me like they do a large number of English majors. And English majors, as one would expect, make up a lot of the publishing industry.

Now, I had a job interview last week. It was a one-hour phone call with an editor from a company which is better known for being big than for its publishing. The concept sounded great - crossing borders, commissioning translations, international writers, etc. - but there was something about it that threw me off.

"Tell me about how you analyse data," they asked.

Data? That's no problem. We use past sales data to project whether a book will sell or not in future.

"Tell me about what goals were set for you in a previous company and how you met them."

So I outlined my previous work experience. They said: "No. What targets were you given, and did you make those targets."

Oh. Well, fine, but I liked my first answer better.

"Now, when you went to India, what were your stated goals there?"

Blah blah blah, best practices, new processes, exchanging core competencies, blah blah blah. They said: "No. What were your targets, and how did you meet them."

Oh. Well, I guess if you care about those rather than the important breakthroughs we had honing the development process for complicated projects. . . .

It was a shame, almost. Even after it was my turn to ask questions and I was given answers which matched almost exactly the spirit of my own responses, I quickly realised what was going on with this interview: they were collecting data. On me.

That data will be fed back into the corporate machine and will determine whether I'm fit for Round 2. (Don't worry. I'm probably not.)

It's a little disheartening to come back to the real world after having been a student and praising these high ideals of internationalism and innovation. In the end, you get in the door with your numbers. But really? When working internationally, when crossing boundaries like that, is it possible to really use numbers to make all of your decisions? If that were true, literal translations would be a piece of cake. You could use exactly the format of Eurovision or Jersey Shore and bring it to the other side of the ocean and it would absolutely work.

If you've lived internationally, you know what rubbish that is. There's a reason people can differentiate between The Office in the US and The Office in the UK, and it's not because Steve Carrell is slimmer than Ricky Gervais. Imagine Bollywood in Canada. It's just not one to one.

Anyways. I tried to follow up to send a thank you note to my interviewer, but was politely but firmly told I was not allowed to receive their personal information. I suppose that's about right. They didn't seem to have collected any about me, either.

Currency Exchange

I've been out of touch because of a looming deadline in our most difficult module, focusing on new product development. There is nothing quite so exhausting like standing in front of a group of your colleagues, tutors, and other publishing industry professionals to give a talk about . . . finance.



Cash money.

If this Blog Were Written Like One of My MA Papers

Basic Features
- Short sentences (jargon)
- Bullet points
- No verbs
- Boring. Illustrations!

Several of these

Numbers often complicated, presented in table:

Figure 1.1: Ugly

Overall Objective: Detrimental to future writing abilities (Harvard referencing, 2011)

Appendix A: Can I go home yet?

Happily Ever After

I suppose, since I live in England, you'll want to hear my thoughts on the Royal Wedding.

Let me put it this way: On my way home from Barcelona, I stood in front of a small family of Brits who, for reasons unknown, snapped into American accents and started making fun of random Yankee words.

"Duuude, I'm going to go eat a baaaagel on the siiiidewalk wearing paaaaants."

Really? I thought. These are the words you're making fun of us for? Bagel? Sidewalk? Pants?

Two weeks later, I signed onto Facebook as Wills walked Kate down the aisle, and noticed several American friends had gotten up in the wee hours to celebrate the nuptials.

"I wish I was in England celebrating with scones," someone had commented. "Or maybe some Cadbury's! Or some biscuits! With my tea!"

Really? I thought. Scones? Biscuits? Cadbury's? So what?

In my book, Cadbury's is just a candy bar, bagels are sold at Tesco, and the scones are rubbish here anyways and I prefer the ones in Ireland. Maybe the magic is lost on me. Anyways, since the whole affair involved someone else's future sovereigns, I caught a few moments on the BBC iPlayer and got on with my day.

I will say this: when Prince William spoke the wedding vows, it occurred to me that he has the most stereotypically English accent in England. Which is, I suppose, as it should be. Even though, just for fun, sometimes I like to ask my friends how they enjoyed "the Royal Wed-din', bruv".

French-abic

I mentioned back in January that I was hoping to practice my French in my recent trip to Casablanca. I knew that most people living in Morocco had several languages, of which French and English are usually second and third, respectively. On the other hand, since I don't know Arabic, I was hoping that we could all default to le francais and muddle along together . . . and I would for once be able to use my second language in practice.

In reality, this is closer to the truth:

What I thought I said: "We would like two salads, please."
What our waiter hears: "I'm eating two salads, maybe."

What I thought I said: "... except, please do not put any fish on my salad. NO fish!"
What our waiter hears: "Two plates of fish, please! No! Three!"

What I thought I said: (waving my hands) "No, I asked that there be no fish!"
What our waiter hears: (indicating where to place the fish) "No, I have no idea what I'm saying!"

What I thought I said: "And . . . two mint teas?" (am corrected by sister) "No. Only one."
What our waiter hears: "There are two morons here." (correction) "No. Only one."

In general, it was easier than I thought to get around, even though I did receive the occasional "What language are you trying to speak, anyway?" I suppose it would be the same as going to India to learn English. Sure, you'll pick it up, but you'll pick up some Hindi, too. Or, in my case, Arabic. La, la, la.

Photos from Morocco, Posted on Moroccan Time

Even though I've been home from Morocco for almost a week now, I haven't gotten around to sharing my experience. I must be operating on Moroccan time. It's like normal time, but two hours late.

Mosque Hassan II

Sunset during the call to prayer

Overlooking the Atlantic Ocean

What did I do in Casablanca? There's not many tourist attractions. My sister and I aren't much for shopping. We lay on the beach instead, talked about life, and tried in vain to order Moroccan mint tea. (You pour it three times before you drink it. It tastes better that way.)

We also saw a great Moroccan band performing at a local bar, including some of my favorite songs by the Gypsy Kings. It wasn't Rick's Cafe, but it was nevertheless pure Casablanca.

Bem bem bem Maria!