Boston, You're My Home

You may be wondering (or not) why it's been so long since my last post. To be honest, the long silence has been somewhat by design.

It was absolutely the right decision to plan five weeks of weekend travel in a row, with the big move back to Boston sandwiched right in the middle. Just four days after my arrival back in the country, I was off to Philadelphia to see old friends, next off to Michigan to see my family. I didn't take any photos of the trip, nor will I dig any out to catch up on posting. My brain, no matter how hard I tried to crank out an update, just wanted to stay off, and I knew it was better to leave it that way.

At the beginning of last week, however, I stepped out of Logan's Terminal B and realized I had no further plane travel scheduled. My suitcases would need to be unpacked and I would have to actually pick an address and stay with it for a while.

It's been nice to be back. Everything is just as I left it. In fact, oddly so. It seems like far more than a year and a half ago I was complaining about weird guys in yoga class after a jagged return home from India. I went back today and it was still the same people. Some of them even said hi and welcomed me back.

The only weird thing is that, for me, my last frame of reference was discussing how excited I was to find the bus from Oxford to London. When I see these people again, I want to say, "Hey! That coach left from in front of my flat!" Like they were frozen in time, still curious about my English day trip habits. For them, of course, time inbetween has filled with lots of other points of reference. They haven't been thinking about it. Life has gone on.

Not that my life hasn't gone on. It's just that, last time it went on in Boston this is what I was thinking about. I'm not the same person now. But I'll adapt.

In other news, I found a job. That's another reason I didn't write: no one wants to hear how boring it is to be unemployed. I did not want to talk about my interviews. Suffice to say, I'm happy to be using my new skills and knowledge in a way I never thought I would . . . and I'm lucky to have that chance.

The downside is, my job involves a lot of writing so I'm not sure what the repercussions will be for the blog. I would like to keep it up. I know several old classmates and coworkers read it occasionally, and, hell, I enjoy it. Time will tell how often I return to it, though. If life without travel starts to become boring, I won't share that here. I'll more likely just keep shtum until something new happens and I see fit to tell the world again . . .

Gravity

As written in the Notes section of my iPod, traveling at 38,000 feet:

Please allow for an extended metaphor.

A few weeks ago I found myself making personal comparisons with a high diver, twisting and turning in midair as I completed my first draft of the dissertation, traveled to Scandinavia, attempted a trip to Stonehenge but wound up at Brighton, arranged farewell dinners and parties and picnics with anyone I could think of. To put it bluntly, preparing to say goodbye.

I came out of the acrobatics last week, shaking hands with bosses and supervisors and lecturers and friends in what finally was farewell, feeling like I was finally pointed down at the water. I have a friend from elementary school living in Nottingham, the one I called when I was first considering a Master's degree abroad. We've known each other almost two decades. Four nights ago I sat across from her and her mom in a London pub and we remarked on how far we'd come. Two nights ago I sat on a blanket in the Angel and Greyhound meadow in Oxford with classmates I'd known less than a year but who I hope to see gracing the industry newspapers. This morning, one of them had already made the Bookseller. What a cast of characters. What a life.

So I'm out of my twist and I'm pointed straight at the water. I've been focusing hard these past few months on what my first evening back will entail. A quality New England beer, a veggie chilli (two L's), a balmy Boston evening and glimpses of the Hancock Tower on Copley Square. Now I'm on the plane, it's the periphery stuff I worry about. The things like, how to pronounce 'can't', and the baseball scores, and 'line' versus 'queue'. There are many things I've missed. Things I can't put a finger on but which seem to linger beneath every attempt to listen to US radio. In a few moments I'll be back in the pool, hoping I remember how to swim, sure eventually I'll be back in the air wondering about that wild falling sensation still fluttering in my stomach.

I have no idea what happens next, but no one ever dives so they can swim. They dive for this crazy feeling of midair, the way I asked friends last night about their plans to move to London, or China, or Tehran, or beyond. Once I land, all I know is, it's time to start kicking, to come back for air so I can do it all again.

Bag It Up

There is only one thing more chaotic than living out of a suitcase:

Putting it all back in when you're done.

More Things I Wasn't Expecting to Do Today

The first: enjoy dinner at an Indian restaurant in East London with the same lovely British expats I stumbled into on my first morning in the Delhi guesthouse.

The second: Be appointed chief price negotiator, and successfully haggle the waiter into a ten percent higher discount and a few extra bottles of wine. Best customer, indeed.

The third: Go to Brighton.

We had planned for weeks to go to Stonehenge. If by 'planned' I mean, 'talked vaguely about' so that Saturday night found us googling 'trips to Stonehenge' at 2 am. We walked to the nearest hotel the next day and asked if there were any tours going, but of course in tourist high season they were all booked. Oh well. I'm told it's smaller than you expect, anyway.

Our Plan B was to hop on a train head to the coast, to the Atlantic City of the English channel.

At the end of the evening, my sunburnt face glowing over a plate of vegetarian tapas, I confessed I could hardly imagine any of the past two years of living abroad going half so well had I not been placed in such good company in our guesthouse in Delhi. I had arrived thinking I'd be traveling alone. Then I thought I'd disappear back into my country, never to see them again. Instead I find myself toasting the health of these same friends twelve months and two lifetimes away.

Isn't it nice to know that, sometimes, Plan B can be the better option anyway.

Now or Never

I was in Nepal. I was tired. I had just come downhill from Everest Base Camp and wasn't looking forward to a few extra hours in dirty, bustling Kathmandu. I needed to rearrange my flight. To do that, explained my elderly travel agent, I would need to travel by motorbike with him to the offices across town.

That's how I found myself, on my last day in Asia, perched on the back of a motorcycle weaving its way in and out of traffic. I was pretty sure the old guy wasn't keen on me clinging to him like I'd seen most Indian families do. I kept a respectful if wobbly distance until he gently said, 'Hold my shoulder, please' and I gingerly held on to him with one hand while trying to keep my balance.

My blonde hair glinted in the sun and my expression, behind my aviator sunglasses, said to the gawkers: Yeah? so?

I bring this up because it's the kind of adventure you have when you're halfway out the door. Within 48 hours I was at the bar in Boston, shaking my head to clear the dust of Delhi from my nose. (Harder than you think.) This week, I looked at what I had been missing from my year living in Europe and took a long-awaited trip to Scandinavia to stay with friends.

There I was, cycling down the street in Copenhagen with a calm but bemused smile, wondering when on earth I would ever have a chance to do something like this again. Would I ever fly all the way from America to ride the roller coaster in Tivoli? Not likely. So why not now? When there's so much to see?

My hostess, a friend from the publishing program, understood completely and ushered me from boats to museums and, just for a lark, on a quick trip to Sweden. When we played fairway games at the amusement park they let me pick the prizes, and we (accidentally) stayed past closing at the Carlsberg brewery. Sure, I could have gone to Denmark earlier in life, or later, and there's plenty of things I need to take care of in Oxford before I go. But the chance to finally see Scandinavia, with friends, is an opportunity that can't be wasted. I only hope I can share such good experiences when it's their turn to visit me in the States.

At Least We Don't Call it 'Barbie'

Last week a few friends and I gathered to celebrate the Fourth of July with a barbecue.

There were a few problems with that: first, it wasn't the fourth of July. We had to celebrate on the ninth of July because we were too busy the previous weekend, and the actual fourth was a Monday and everyone was working.

Second, there were only three Americans there. The rest of the party was made up of Germans, Australians, South Africans, Brazilians, an Irishman, and a few Brits.

Third, we were standing in the country we were celebrating independence from.

Needless to say, it was the least American celebration of American independence I have ever enjoyed. That doesn't mean it wasn't a good time. English weather threatened us with rain but for the most part we stayed dry. The grilling was fine and we had no fewer than three apple pies for dessert. In fact, we were even proud to call it 'dessert'. No 'pudding' here! Don't tread on me!

I suppose it could be worse. Another friend and I were at a grill-up a few days later and, upon looking at the menu, she burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" I asked, and she pointed at the sign.

"Polish sausage!" she giggled. This friend was, I should mention, actually from Poland.

"Oh, do you want some?"

"What the heck is Polish sausage?" she cackled. She was barely able to contain herself. Apparently, in Poland there is no such thing. It's just sausage. Who knew.

She ordered it anyway, and thoroughly enjoyed the English barbecue version of Polish sausage, just as I had enjoyed the American version of an English barbecue. Tomorrow, I plan to celebrate Bastille day with my French roommate by drinking sangria. We are all rubbish at playing to type.

London Calling

Being a longtime fan of classic British rock, it was vaguely satisfying to find myself wandering down the streets of Soho at 2 am a few nights ago, rushing to catch the last bus back to Oxford. I had the opening lyric to The Who's "Who Are You" rolling through my head on repeat: "I woke up in a Soho doorway, policeman knew my name." Now here I was, quickstepping right past the same bars I'd heard about in the songs, surrounded by friends after an evening of birthdays and conversation.

This isn't the only thing that's wonderful about living so close to London. When I first moved to Oxford, I remember planning exactly when I would catch the Oxford Tube, then staring out the window at the green fields we passed (wondering why we stopped to pick up passengers at a stop called 'Lucknow', which as far as I could tell was four houses in the middle of a field). When we entered London I looked around in awe at the hustle and bustle of the west end, then hopped on the Tube to--well, who knows. It was so long ago now I've forgotten.

Now, I stroll across the street whenever I can be bothered to catch whatever bus comes along for London. I can go just for dinner, for a drink, for a conference, and I can be back in my own flat by evening. That still hasn't deprived it of any of its wonder. A few weeks ago I took my older sister and we enjoyed imported American beers and veggie burgers from Borough Market along the Thames, not far from where Shakespeare had his Globe. We walked opposite the river from the Tower of London, in the shadow of the Shard, and then met a friend for curries in Brick Lane. Two days later, I was back in town having drinks in a riverboat with a friend from elementary school. From our window, we could see Big Ben and the London Eye making its lazy circles along the riverbank.

These are just a sampling of things to do in London. It can't even remotely describe what I'm trying to get at: the amazing diversity and life in the city. It's not very well organised and it's completely random. The White Tower where Anne Boleyn got her head removed is just around the corner from Canary Wharf.with its brand new skyscrapers. Many people dislike London for all its grey skies and (yes, occasionally) stuffy people, but now that I'm only a few weeks away from shuffling back to my side of the ocean . . . I'm going to miss it more than I originally thought.

It's been a great year. Now, as time marches on towards my flight, onwards and upwards, at the very least I can console myself with yet another lyric from The Who: "At each end of my life / is an open door."

Workaday

During the trip to Italy last week, we were given the unique opportunity to visit one of the country's most prominent publishing houses. Guinti Editorial, whose dominance includes both books and retail chains, hold their operations in a beautiful mountaintop villa down the road from our own accommodation. So, after plenty of chatting and conferencing, we trod up the road to have a look.

As we toured around the beautiful, historic villa I tried to keep a running commentary in my head of what it would be like to actually work there.

"Here I am, coming into work, making my way past the carved marble statues and through the 17th-century frescos painted in the same style as the Palazzo Vecchio. Around the corner from the fireplace with the family crest of the Medicis, where nobles plotted the family's overthrow in the 18th century.

"Oh! Look what's hanging from the ceiling above my desk!

"Time for a meeting. Look at the view from my conference room!

Not your correspondent, but she could be my boss

"Time for lunch. What shall I read in my break time. Oh, I know! The collected works of Leonardo Da Vinci bound in priceless leather volumes handmade to replicate the original documents as closely as possible!"

Then I tried to think of the perks of my former Boston office. We used to brag because we had really nice cubicles and free coffee.

....... Yeahhhhh.

Here's the Kicker . . .

'To punt' has a couple of different meanings, depending on which side of the ocean you're on. In America, it's something you do in (need I say it, American) football, where you toss the ball back to the kicker and he launches it across the field to the other end, buying you extra yards before you send out your defense.

As a result it's taken on a second meaning, when you decide not to address something right away and sort of waffle on it until you really can't help but get to work.

In the UK, it's a sport native of only Oxford or Cambridge, where you take a long flat boat out and steer it around using only a worthless little paddle and a long pole. The breed of punting can be distinguished by where you stand on the boat: Cambridge punters stand on the flat end, Oxford on the scooped end. Both of them tend to smack into the riverbank more often than float downstream.

Well, your correspondent has been doing a little bit of both.

It's been so long since I last posted because, as I've hinted at before, it's awfully difficult to take a break from intensive report writing to . . . do more writing. The good news is, one draft is (just about) done and I should be back to my regular schedule shortly.

. . . ANY other name?

In case you were curious what we did in that week in Florence:

http://publishinglexicon.wikispaces.com/

A group of students from five countries got together to discuss what words we use when we talk about publishing. The results were fascinating.

Did you know Italians have hundreds of different words for different types of children's books? And that there is a unique word just for pop-up books? For textured books? For cardboard books?

Did you know that the French googliser and twitter, but insisted on creating a new word for "digital books"?

Did you know that the german word for Search Engine Optimisation, which we abbreviate as SEO, is Suchmaschinenoptimierung? (They abbreviate it as SEO sometimes, too. I wonder why.)


Did you know any words in Slovenian?


You do now!

A Rose by Any Other Name . . .

The weirdest thing about summer school in Italy? I spent half of my time speaking French.

The course I participated in was run in conjunction with three other universities besides my own. The University of Paris, Leipzig University, and the University of Ljubljana sent their own publishing students, to talk about digital publishing in each of our respective countries. Though the common language was meant to be English, French lecturers began by admitting they were best prepared to speak in their native language and employ a translator. My notes are scribbled in a hodgepodge of languages, which was all the more confusing when it was time to go to town and I continued to merci the locals.

They, of course, said, scuzi?


Things became clearer by the end of the week, as altogether we agreed about the loveliness of the villa and drank more cappucino than could possibly be good for us. They literally served us three meals within five hours, each more opulent than the rest. That was before we went into town and saw the gelato.

Second breakfast

Fourth dessert

I made great friends with the other students, and the night before leaving for Casablanca found myself in a local bar enjoying another Italian specialty . . . A certain kind of drink which involved oranges, sugar, coffee grounds, bananas dipped in poppyseeds. How did you drink it? Following the commands of the mustachioed Italian bartender.

Chin chin!

Pisa Cake

Here's the weird thing. The Leaning Tower of Pisa doesn't just lean. It leans visibly.

It leans so that you kind of suspect one of these days - in fact, any minute now - it will accidentally topple over. They only allow 40 people to climb at one time; one suspects that's because too many people gaping down from the top levels would send the whole thing to the ground.

It was leaning before they even finished building. That's why it also seems to curve, just ever so slightly, to compensate for the tilt at the base. No one tells you about that. No one tells you about the intricate design work on its many pillars, either, and the way it gently complements the beautiful cathedral sitting directly behind.

These were the surprising bits. Otherwise, it was something I'd seen a million times in photographs. I sat in the grass with a university friend I'd bumped into on the plane, both on our way to Florence for a seminar on digital publishing. We looked at the Leaning Tower together, and I couldn't help thinking that it was too familiar to be real.

My friend, a Chinese student with a talent for photography and a travel bug almost as large as mine, flipped through the pictures on his camera until he came to the one he wanted. He showed me the screen. "This all reminds me of a palace I saw in Beijing."

I looked. A temple, very Chinese in style, with the same sort of dome as the church whose shadow we were sitting underneath. Kind of. It looked completely foreign to me. But to my friend, this courtyard was foreign, and he was trying to compare it to home.

Just when you think you've got it pegged. . . . !
-----------------------

I'm aware that I haven't posted in a while, and there is a lot of news to share from the trip to Florence, Madrid, and Morocco. Bear with me for a while, since most of my time right now is taken up by my dissertation. I'm writing as much as I can these days - it doesn't leave much creative energy for blog posts. Once the paper is done, hopefully in a few weeks or so, posting should go back to normal..

Neverending

I looked at the man in the bazaar. He looked at me.

"Two hundred," he said.

In the back of my head, a little forgotten gear gone almost rusty started to turn again. "Two hundred ... No. One ... hundred? ... I mean: one hundred!"

Just like that. I was haggling again.

I've been back from Morocco only about a week, long enough to dive into dissertation research and phone up a few publishers from Brazil, Argentina, and Mexico. Now I'm typing up the last of it before packing my laptop back into its case and catching a bus to the airport, destination Florence.

There, I'll be participating in a seminar on digital publishing with Slovenian, French, and Italian students, aaaaaaand of course sampling the local cuisine by night. (It's only natural.) On the way home, I stop for 12 hours in Madrid to see what I can see, then it's back to Morocco for my final visit to the sister, and then finally - finally - I land back in Britain.

No volcanic ash has caught up with me yet, but my goodness if this hasn't been a whirlwind month.

I'll write more about how it goes trying to speak 'e-book' with Slovenians. Meanwhile: ciao.

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.