21 January 2018
Vuelta
Loyal readers of this blog will recall that I spent 6 months in Chile's capital in 2011, managing a project for my employer and using any spare time to discover bits of this diverse country and its people.
This marked my first return to Santiago since, and the first time I experienced the city at the height of the southern hemisphere's summer, which made for the stark contrast in climate to Montréal's icy winter. I eagerly expected the heat, packing my bathing suit and sunglasses.
What I didn't expect was the strange sense of wistfulness that took hold of me pretty much from the moment I got into a taxi at the airport. From the smell in the air (no, not the jet fuel!) to the Chilean accent of the taxista, things seemed so familiar. Later that day, as I strolled down the streets of Providencia, I reacquainted myself with many of the stores and cafés I used to go patronize. Soon, I sat on a shady patio munching away on empanadas de pino and drinking a cold Austral.
Nostalgia didn't cloud my vision enough not to notice that the city has progressed remarkably. There was an gigantic new shopping mall at the foot of South America's tallest tower. The parque metropolitano had a new cable car, and new signage throughout. And the eco-certified office building which just broke ground in 2011 was now the location of my client meetings. Yes, Chile has done well in the meantime.
So what about myself, I inevitably started wondering as I sipped a Pisco Sour in the warm evening light. The boundless enthusiasm and optimism of 2011 have given way to a more cautious realism. I have changed roles twice, but not employer. I am still in Canada, but now as as citizen, rather than a temporary worker. I may have grown a bit wiser, but probably also more cynical (the depressing sight of the former site of our Chilean office, long-since shuttered, didn't help). Much like to the Pisco, there was a touch of bitterness to it.
But bitter goes with sweet, and not just in the chocolate araucano ice cream that rounded off my dinner. I have also found companionship, and the continued privilege of roaming the globe (including a trip to the Chilean-administered Easter Island in 2013).
Still, when I left Santiago after an all-too quick return visit, I did so with a sense that the city had advanced more in the last 6 years than I had.
Sub-zero temperatures awaited me back in Canada, freezing everything solid. But just like I to Santiago, spring will eventually make a comeback to Montréal. And with it, things will start to flow again...
# posted by Oli : 17:14
31 October 2017
Social committee
Yes, Halloween is upon us once again. After initial ignorance, my time in Canada has by now made me well-acquainted, but no more enthusiastic, about the North American version of carnival. It remains an asinine, unnecessary, embarrassing and highly commercialized aberration.
Only recently, though, have I started noticing that the dressing up isn't just limited to rugrats and the alcohol-infused university set. Last year, I was irritated when on October 31st, I was served by a bank teller in a fairy queen outfit (good thing she didn't go for the bank robber look). But this year took the institutionalized silliness to new heights.
A few days ago, a company-wide email from the social committee (the first I heard of such a body) arrived in my inbox, alerting me not only to a communal pumpkin carving in the cafeteria and a ghoulish potluck (aren't they all?), but also officially inviting me to wear my costume both on the day before and on Halloween itself. Ever the cynic, I laughed at the hopeless attempt by company cheerleaders to lighten the workplace mood, and promptly deleted the message.
But as it turned out, many colleagues did not: For the past two days, I have worked side-by-side with cowboys, cops, Hotwarts wizards, and random creations with silly wigs. What seemed utterly undignified to me appeared to be great fun to my - normally straitlaced - colleagues.
For marketers and merchandisers, extracting not just kids' pocket money, but adults' hard-earned dollars for Halloween costumes surely is the holy
Fortunately, in Canada the hubbub will be over by tomorrow. South of the border, though, they are not so lucky. There, a serially bankrupted former Reality TV star has been acting as President since January. Who ya gonna call?
# posted by Oli : 22:08
21 April 2017
Mister Proper
We had debated the issue for a long time. With a larger demeure than in the past, long work days and frequent travel, we often found ourselves dedicating weekend days to the mop and the broom. It did not feel like a good use of a precious resource - free time, in this case.
The solution was as obvious as it was awkward. Neither of us was accustomed to having a paid professional clean the house. We weren't even comfortable with referring to somebody else doing our chores (The Economist sympathizes), much less interacting with such a person.
Not so our friends, colleagues and relatives, most of which habitually outsource housekeeping and showered us with references. Reluctantly, I started calling them up, beginning with the sous la table operators that seem most common in the city.
The initial responses reinforced our hesitation: These folks seemed disorganized, uninterested, unreliable, inflexible ("there is no guaranteed parking?") and pretty pricey. I quickly learned that this is a seller's market. Add to that my general aversion to black labor, and we decided that this was not the route to go.
With the dust bunnies multiplying in the corners and the parquet floors losing their luster, I pressed on and called the last number on my reference list: A cleaning company. And before I knew it, I had an appointment for a comprehensive appraisal of the work to be done.
Precisely at the agreed time, an immaculately dressed gentleman ran my doorbell, and swiftly proceeded with a walk-through of our house, clipboard in hand, assessing the work and explaining the tools and methods he would use. The entire process concluded with a remarkably reasonable quote, presentation of a corporate insurance certificate and the willingness to issue tax receipts - I was floored.
And those floors soon became squeaky clean again, as our new Mr. Clean and his wife started their bi-weekly visits. The awkwardness remains: I am not quite ready yet to hand over the keys and let them home alone, so I hole up in the study while the house gets a makeover. I try to be polite and friendly, while at the same time being unhelpful. After all, me not doing the work is why they are here. When the moment comes to pay, I fork over the cash with the same guilt-ridden feeling as one would have tipping a rickshaw driver before escaping into a five star hotel.
But then I close the door, hear my feet squeak on the shiny floors, smell the bleachy air in the kitchen, look at the spotless bathroom mirror, and realize: Yes, I can get used to this.
# posted by Oli : 22:00
22 November 2015
Montréal's Mallorca
As I found out this week, Montréal also has its Mallorca. It is not in Spain, of course. But it, too, enjoys warm climes, sandy beaches, cheap flights from the motherland and all the conveniences of home. A conference brought me to Southern Florida's Fort Lauderdale, and thus into the heart of Floribec.
That Canadians enjoy escaping their long cold winters for a few days of sun is not news. But until this week, I had not quite appreciated just how much the Québecois are concentrated on a small stretch of ocean-lining suburbia north of Miami.
It didn't take long after arriving to spot the first fleur de lys flags outside motels, restaurants and convenience stores. And a quick stop at a Walmart brought the first sighting: "Lucien!" called a female voice from the cereals aisle, "t'en veux-tu des Fruit Loops?" A grey-haired man in white socks and an oversized Hawaii shirt shuffled over. "Ouais", he responded, "sont-ils en sale icitte?" When leaving the store, I noticed the minivan with the Québec license plates in the parking lot.
That night, as I sat down at a mid-priced chain steakhouse, I immediately noticed the two elderly men in the booth behind me twaddling in the thickest of Québecois accents. Somewhat maliciously, I continued to eavesdrop as the waitress approached them, curious to hear how they would struggle in Hanglish to order their food. Imagine my surprise, then, when I heard them nonchalantly asking for their steak in French - and the waitress responding in the very same tongue!
Yes, Floribec has its own ecosystem, which extends beyond restaurants and accommodation to include a monthly magazine and even three branches of the Caisse Désjardins, which I suspect to specialize in cashing Canadian pension cheques and arranging condo mortgages. While there are no clear numbers, the size of the resident French-Canadian population must be large enough to support this community year-round. It is not for nothing that Florida's two hockey teams, Tampa and Miami, play in the same NHL Division as the three Eastern Canadian teams of Montréal, Ottawa and Toronto: A few years ago, a study found that the Florida teams make more than 50% of their revenues from ticket sales from Canadians, keen to see their home teams play while they are on holiday down south.
During the school breaks, droves of families with their kids head for Florida's beaches, but the off-season mainly has retirees choosing the sunshine state's tropical weather over the cold of the motherland. Some keep a second car down south to navigate the uninspired suburbia of Floribec, while others drive all the way from Canada in their van or roulotte.
Much like in Mallorca, which I have also only visited on business trips, the charms of Floribec have eluded me. There was, however, one positive effect of my stay in Montréal's Mallorca that I cannot deny: Looking at my fellow passengers as I settled in on my return flight from Fort Lauderdale, I basked in a rare sensation of youth and sophistication. What the Québecois have known for a long time is true, then: La Floride, là, ça te fait du bien!
Labels: Quebec, travel, USA, work
# posted by Oli : 18:47
08 March 2015
Non-compete clause
Not everybody takes it quite as far as she did, with Rugby, but an antagonistic or at least competitive element is a main driver in most sports. Whether it is ice hockey, running or indeed swimming, most athletes are motivated by a strong desire to beat others at it.
I am not most athletes. I never was, and it is only in conversation with the inherently competitive people around me that I realize that I am more the exception than the rule. When I swim, I am perfectly happy to just do lap upon lap at steady pace, with my mind wandering elsewhere. I have swum the same distance in the same time for years. She, in the lane next to me, is going through a complex routine of different sets, styles, speeds, and pauses. She gets better all the time.
When we run, I can only do so at one speed, and as the season progresses, I simply go a bit further every time. Each spring, I start back at the same place. What's that talk about interval training? "It's like a car engine", she tried. "Your endurance is simply the size of your tank. But if you do intervals, you increase the power of your engine!" That may well be true. But why would I want that? It's not as if I had my eyes on the next Olympics.
I swim, or run, simply because I like it. Conversely, exercise that is not inherently pleasurable seems unbelievably dull and pointless. Performing a gym routine is akin to brushing teeth: You are told to do it to prevent adverse long-term consequences, so you do. But it is not satisfactory in any way - not to mention that people look much sillier lifting weights than toothbrushes. And no dentist has ever told me to change up my brushing routine just as I started getting the hang of it.
The other day, I sat down for lunch with my new work colleagues, following a change in job I had recently managed to obtain. When asked to explain why I had sought this new role, I did not hesitate to articulate how I felt that, after three years in my last position, my learning curve had started to flatten out and I was looking for a fresh challenge. I am glad to have found it, and was eagerly outlining the many new projects I looked forward to working on. "Change and progress are always good", I suggested, firmly in a business mindset and not questioning my own statement for a moment.
My new team seemed to agree. "It's good that we managed to keep you in the company", said one. "Or did they make you sign a non-compete clause?" enquired another. They hadn't. And such clauses are mostly unenforceable anyways, which is why lucky departing employees get paid not to compete.
If only they did that for my athletic endeavors. I wouldn't have to worry about a job anymore at all.
# posted by Oli : 17:48
13 January 2015
Going underground
I'd inevitably tell my visitors to lower their expectations - pun intended. Yes, there were a few below-ground walkways here and there, stuffed with second-rate shops and food outlets. But I was always unimpressed by the network's utility, never mind value as a tourist attraction. So when our offices moved to a new building connected to the réseau souterrain, I barely paid any attention.
I should have. On a lunchtime outing a few days ago, I had just arrived at the grocery store a few blocks down from the office and was busy unwrapping the layers protecting me from the -20C cold outside, when a co-worker emerged from the snacks aisle. To my surprise, she was wearing office slippers and a casual cardigan, attire clearly unsuitable to keep her Mexican body comfortable outside.
Turns out she had not been in the open at all. Instead, she had made use of the underground network to come all the way from our office to the store. I was fascinated as she guided me back the way she came, along a convoluted succession of over- and underpasses, up and down 8 flights of stairs, through revolving doors and up elevators... to reemerge by my desk.
A closer look at the underground map was in order, and it became apparent from it that there were a series of connecting passages of which I had not been aware - and which connect multiple sections of the grid into one continuous network, thereby greatly improving utility.
Today at lunchtime, your urban boyscout set off in the opposite direction, looking smug in his dress shirt and loafers while the colleagues in the elevator were bundling up to face the elements outside. And sure enough, I found yet another passage (counter-intuitively leading up above ground level and through an encased alley) connecting my office to a neighboring section, from there down again, up through the exhibition center and across to the main train station, my destination for today.
I had not been doing the Montréal underground movement justice, then. With the newly-found links, I have dry-foot access to six metro stations on two lines, various malls, food courts... and even the two YMCAs I regularly use. It may not be the most direct way of getting there, but on arctic winter days like today, the indoor walk is the perfect warm-up!
Labels: Montreal, weather, work
# posted by Oli : 20:19
13 May 2014
Belle vue
All of this has changed when our company moved into a brand new high-rise tower in the heart of Montréal. It is modern, airy, and very open. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with daylight, and offer panoramic views on downtown, the Old Port and the Financial District. And the transparency does not stop there: Gone are the dusty grey cubicles from the 80ies, in came an open-plan layout. Each desk, surrounded by a low glass pane, offers an unobstructed view of everything, and anyone, on the floor. There is not a single closed office left, not even for our senior executives (although they benefit from personal "enclaves" for confidential conversations).
Opinions on the new layout are divided. Some of my co-workers mourn the loss of their Dilbert-like cubicle and the sense of privacy it afforded. Most of us, however, are pleased by the sense of space and light, and the crisp contemporary surroundings. But even we have to admit that the new layout forces us to change the way we behave.
My cell phone is now on vibrate instead of on ringer, and when somebody calls my landline, I lower my voice in answering and politely offer to call back from one of the countless little phone rooms. Not because I have a lot of confidential conversations, but because I try to avoid distracting the colleague sitting an arm's lenght away. It's the same story for ad-hoc meetings. No more "have a seat", instead I offer "let's go to an Oasis and chat".
This is just being considerate, and following the guidelines established by the company as we moved in. Yet there are also finer points, on which the guide remains silent: Since you now notice everybody walking past your desk, do you have to acknowledge them? Do you have to say "hi"? Should they? All the time? Or just when they get there in the morning - as we now started doing? Time will tell.
One thing is certain: When I walk the halls of our shiny, smart new corporate headquarters, I do so with a certain poise. After all, I wouldn't want to ruin the view.
Labels: work
# posted by Oli : 21:37
06 March 2014
Rapidair
This is the label Air Canada uses
to designate its shuttle-like air service in the triangle between Toronto,
Montréal and Ottawa. Given the population density, economic activity and wealth of the triangle,
it is an attractive and busy market, with 3 airlines competing with VIA Rail,
bus lines and the option of 6h behind the wheel.
Despite all the options, the price tag of a round-trip on Rapidair is such, at $400 to $600, that business travellers make up the majority of the passengers. And these folks value frequency – they want there to be a flight whenever they need one. So Air Canada alone offers 76 flights between Montréal and Toronto every weekday, with hourly service early to late and departures every 30 minutes during peak periods. Together with WestJet and Porter, there are over 200 flights each weekday: Like back in the days of the Berlin air lift, planes come and go continuously. There is even service to the centrally located Billy Bishop airport on an island right in front of Toronto’s downtown, cutting out the long drive from the city’s main Pearson airport.
Despite all the options, the price tag of a round-trip on Rapidair is such, at $400 to $600, that business travellers make up the majority of the passengers. And these folks value frequency – they want there to be a flight whenever they need one. So Air Canada alone offers 76 flights between Montréal and Toronto every weekday, with hourly service early to late and departures every 30 minutes during peak periods. Together with WestJet and Porter, there are over 200 flights each weekday: Like back in the days of the Berlin air lift, planes come and go continuously. There is even service to the centrally located Billy Bishop airport on an island right in front of Toronto’s downtown, cutting out the long drive from the city’s main Pearson airport.
Recently, work saw me take quite a
few Rapidair trips. Bit by bit, that “seasoned air commuter” routine started
settling in. I book tickets on increasingly short notice. I cut it close with
getting to the airport. I stand-by on earlier flights. I start recognizing the crews. And I have sampled my
way through the entire in-flight snack basket. Getting on Rapidair has become almost as normal as getting on the métro - albeit with more tedious security proceedures.
Of course, the mileage junkie in me relishes every opportunity to go travelling, and although they are short, even Rapidair flights earn valuable points. But the travel romantic and the air commuter personae don't get along well. One still wants to get excited and curious, the other sighs at the prospect of yet another hop to Ontario.
Yet there is hope: Sometime soon, the air commuter wil go on another Rapidair to Toronto. But once there, the travel romantic will take over and connect to a flight on an unknown airline, to a far-away and exotic land. It's a compromise made in heaven. For now, however, I have to turn off any electronic devices, fold away my tray table, and fasten my seat belt again: Fifty-five minutes of Rapidair are over.
# posted by Oli : 19:24
14 January 2014
Outplacement
That's not exactly how it was. My friend, with over 25 years of service, had no desire to leave her workplace. And she had done nothing wrong - she was simply the victim of yet another corporate reorganization. The occupant of a box which looked expendable on an org-chart somewhere. How did George Clooney's professional terminator put it in Up in the Air? "The reason we're having this conversation today is your position is no longer available."
Staff reductions happen, and although unfortunate, they are a natural part of business life. It can happen to me tomorrow. What shocked me, however, is the way in which my friend's employer (and many others, from what I've been told) handles such situations. The unlucky employee is called into a meeting, told of the news, and then immediately escorted out of the building. No chance to return to the desk where the majority of the last years' waking hours had been spent. No way to say good-bye to colleagues. Personal belongings to be collected after hours.
In the work culture I am accustomed to, this treatment is reserved for crooks, caught red-handed embezzling money, and for people who have just announced that they've signed with the competition. In North America, it appears to be the norm, sweetened by a severance package and an appointment with an outplacement agency (another euphemism!).
To the European observer, that feels not only undignified, but also unwise, for it virtually ensures that all the employee's know-how is irretrievably lost. No time to document important processes, teach others the tricks of the trade, ensure a smooth continuation of affairs. Instead, team mates are left to pick up the pieces.
For better or worse, attitudes seem to differ. I remember my own company being amazed when I told them, prior to moving to Canada, that I'd have to give my last Swiss employer 3 months of notice, and stick around to pass on my knowledge. Even with voluntary departures, notice periods in North America are much shorter, and people are frequently released immediately.
At least I now know not to take it personally, should I ever make the experience. And in this part of the world, getting sacked isn't as much of a blemish as it is in Europe. Or, in the ever-so-eloquent words of Up in the Air's pro: "Anybody who ever built an empire, or changed the world, sat where you are now. And it's because they sat there that they were able to do it." The End.
Labels: work
# posted by Oli : 22:23
14 July 2013
Premium
Yes, prices at the marché are higher than they are in the grandes-surfaces, but not quite as much. No, I have bought one kilo of the finest, coarse, pink Himalayan salt from Pakistan. My salt grinder had gone empty, and given how long its first fill has lasted, I expect this kilo to last until approximately my great-grandson's death.
Which does not change the fact that I'd spent $14.99 on something that would have cost $0.99 at Walmart.
So I finally had to acknowledge something which I'd been suspecting for a while, but like any good, secretive, egalitarian-affluent Swiss, had been trying to ignore: I am a Premium Canadian. I am part of the very target group my employer claims to penetrate more successfully than any other marketing organization. I am part of that reasonably thick, and yet still markedly buoyant cream layer of society that salesmen of all industries are drooling over. And it feels weird.
For I certainly don't consider myself rich, or even wealthy, in any regard. I live in a rented apartment, have so little in furnishings and property that I had to reduce my home insurance quote twice, own no yacht, no car, not even a bike. My wardrobe comes from Old Navy and Giordanos. A Great Gatsby, I am not.
And yet, I had to realize that the average annual income in Québec is $34'300, or $53'300 for those employed full-time and year-round. I do admit coming in above that.
Where, then, does the money go? Travel is the obvious culprit, and one I am very conscious of. But it is the everyday things (yes, including the $14.99 kilo of salt) that make me realize the relative privileges I enjoy. I spend impressive sums of money at the local fromagerie. I do not think twice before buying organic beef, on the rare occasions that I buy meat (no $5.99 dozen of Chicken Wings for me, please). I buy my lunches instead of bringing leftovers from home. And I do not find it odd that all my leaf tea comes from Frankfurt, London and Hong Kong. Applying Swiss standards, it all seemed perfectly normal to me, leaving me somewhat confused when a friend from Ontario, on a recent pre-dinner stop at the SAQ, commented my pick with "You always struck me as more of a $25 per bottle kind of guy." So this is Premium, then.
I am unsure as to where this leaves me, other than on the acquisition lists of every credit card company in the country, and in plain sight of greedy separatist Québec politicians. Today, I am a more conscious, and grateful, Premium consumer. And I take all of this talk with a grain of pink, coarse, Himalayan salt.
P.S. Note to prospective burglars: The image in this post does not depict my mansion.
# posted by Oli : 21:13
25 July 2012
Switcher
Of course it is a French verb. Granted, it may not figure in le Petit Robert, but to describe the act of changing or toggling something, switcher is nonetheless widely used. At least by the uninhibited Québecois, who take the English to switch, add the French verb ending -er and force the resulting construct through conjugation.It takes some getting used to, but fortunately I am having plenty of opportunities, since there is a fair bit of switching going on in my life right now. Just over a week ago, I moved from my employer's hallowed executive floor to a new position in the trenches of the Canadian business unit. This brought not just a welcome change of scenery, but also one of challenges, pace, and team.
As it happens, I find myself working closely with three gregarious, and throughly French-Canadian, colleagues. In consequence, and unlike in my first three years at the company, I now frequently land in meetings and discussions held in French, albeit a version in which switcher is still one of the milder idiosyncracies thrown in.
Taking in the accent, the vernacular and the exuberance still puts a smile on my face, yet is no longer as much one of amusement as it is one of belonging. The Québecois version of French has become my version of French, much to the enjoyment of my colleagues, who gently tease me with it.
Switching things around every now and then is refreshing, and I am looking forward to what promises to be a pretty cool opportunity. Not quite as cool, however, as the most highly coveted switch that I have laid hand on in these sweltering summer days. It is labeled "ON". And it sticks out of my new air-conditioner.
# posted by Oli : 20:54
08 June 2012
Vélo Rallye
It was an assault in broad daylight - and by two colleagues from our brand marketing department, no less. "We're sure you are a cyclist", they cornered me as I entered the cafeteria. Clearly, they were up to no good. So I declined: "Oh no. I only ride my Bixi". Wrong answer. The two were looking for an additional team member in our company's Bixi Ralley squad, and I had just qualified.In the little village I grew up in, there has long been an annual family event called the Velorally. One fine day in May, friends and families get together in small teams, saddle their bikes and embark on a circuit course through the area's vales and dales. Along the way, they must stop at various posts, where fun and quirky challenges have to be tackled. The team earning the most points in these challenges, regardless of how fast they were on the circuit, is eventually proclaimed the winner, once the entire village has gathered in the schoolyard with grilled sausages and beer. The Velorally was a highlight in the town's calendar, and one of the few times yours truly joyfully got out his bike.
This year, and without any involvement on my part, the very same concept has arrived in Montréal. Appropriately corporatized, it now involves company teams raising money for a good cause. And because city dwellers cannot be expected to own their own bikes, the Rallye Montréal Inc. uses the ubiquitous Bixi bikes. For my employer, this was a welcome opportunity to raise brand awareness in our home town, and so five of us gathered one sunny afternoon in the old port. Sporting bright purple jerseys, emblazoned with our logo, we were ready to defend the company's renown.
My team mates were all serious cyclists, and their legs had visibly pedaled a lot further than mine ever will. I, however, was the only one who had been on a Bixi before, and mastery of the 20kg, three-speed, urban-proof contraption turned out to be instrumental in navigating the city's bike paths, potholes and motorized traffic along our 20km circuit. In the various challenges, from playing Twister to memorizing trivia off toilet paper rolls, each of us found opportunities to excel (and otherwise) - it felt like I was right back in our little village race. In the end, as we all gathered back in the
Once again, the Velorally made for a merry day in May. And as for our corporate reputation - well, let's just say there is now a new metric for 2013 performance improvement.
# posted by Oli : 22:08
05 November 2011
Bonheur
It's been about a week since I've returned to Montréal from Chile (with a little side-trip to Spain thrown in for good measure), and with a bit of both geographical as well as temporal distance, I can now look back on my time south of the equator.Quite an experience it undoubtedly was. Culturally, linguistically, meteorologically and professionally, Chile was markedly different from what I had been used to, creating an interesting personal challenge. As time went by, I started to adapt to the new circumstances and learned to appreciate some of the Chilean ways - from the more fluid notion of time (sacrilege to the Swiss) to the importance of relationship over speediness (counterintuitive to the Canadians), it was rewarding to see that different means can lead to equally good ends.
With their warm, cordial attitude, my Chilean colleagues quickly became my friends as well - which was particularly important as during my five months in the country, I did not have the chance to reach out beyond my work mates. It was this the curse of the assignment: Long enough to feel a bit lost, but not long enough to build a proper social network as a cure.
As such, it was with mixed feelings that I left the country: Sad to leave new friends and further interesting destinations behind, but equally happy to return home. And during the past week, Québec got me with a vengeance. From colorful slang swearing about the poor roads the buses trundle on (corruption, you say??), ritual throwing up of hands at the first snowflakes, lavish selection of autumnal delecacies at the local marché, to hallway talk about the lackadaisical performance of the Habs - it all felt warmly familiar, and it put a smile on my face as I transitioned back into my Canadian routine.
So tonight, I will pair some fromage lait cru québécois with a nice bottle of Chilean carménère, smear manjar onto some biscuits, marvel at photos taken in the past five months, including the one now etched into my brand-new Canadian Permanent Resident card, and it will be...
le bonheur, ¿cachai?
Labels: Canada, Chile, culture, work
# posted by Oli : 11:17
24 October 2011
Hasta la vista
Today, the moment to say goodbye to Chile, and to return to the frosty climates up north, has at last arrived. Sitting here at the airport, waiting for my flight to depart, I am in two minds. Sad to leave a place where I have been very warmly welcomed and which I would enjoy exploring more, but at the same time happy to return to the place I've worked hard to make my home.
So, pending a more distanced look back on the last few months, I'll leave you with two videos encapsulating my current state of mind:
and
So, pending a more distanced look back on the last few months, I'll leave you with two videos encapsulating my current state of mind:
and
# posted by Oli : 21:07
14 October 2011
Brand new
Who am I? Where do I belong? What is the purpose of this all? These and other fundamental questions have preoccupied mankind since time immemorial. Philosophers, occultists, theologians and psychiatrists have all been trying to provide answers, with various degrees of success over the centuries. But in today's consumerist society, the lumninaries have lost a lot of their eminence. These days, when people look for guidance, they turn to a brand.The brands of this world are well aware of this role bestowed upon them, and reach into the toolkit of yesteryear to deliver meaning. When my employer executed its global rebranding last week, it was hard to miss similarities with a religous cult. For months, anticipation and excitement had been built up with various cues, messages, and even a "brand roll-down" session, during which we were educated on the corporation's positioning, the core values we stand for and of course the bold vision our new marquee was going to proclaim - all without actually revealing the name itself. It reminded me of psycho-tease kids suffer with an Advent calendar: Continuous small jolts of excitement building up to a big date, by which the little rascals are inevitably so wound up that they just have to enjoy it.
Much to my chagrin, the build-up period even included collective tinkering with perforated "brand value cards" in a challenge to come up with the most creative structures. Anyone who has ever received one of my primary school arts-and-crafts Christmas gifts can appreciate my talent.
When the big day finally came, the mood in the congregation of workers was positively festive. The office walls were decorated with colorful prints, just short of ornaments. We were treated to a lavish breakfast and the promise of spa treatments after, before being corralled into the boardroom to watch a live webcast. A televised countdown and atmospheric tunes left no doubt: Something big was going to happen soon!
And then our CEO appeared, in Apple-esque fashion, on a stage in front of a big video screen, and started preaching to his flock near and far. How we had grown, how global we had become, how this new name was going to unite us all, give us a purpose and make us the recognized leader in our field. The stars would align, our time had come, and we were all together now. It all sounded so good, so sensible, so palpable, that we hardly noticed that the new brand, when it was finally revealed, was an artificial word, a palindrome that means nothing at all. Amen.
Labels: work
# posted by Oli : 09:54
18 August 2011
Potential
Clearly, I am not a local. Not even a well-travelled tourist, in fact. No, this gringo has barely peered beyond one upscale Lima neighborhood - and yet the place seemed strangely familiar. Upon my second brief visit to Peru, which has just ended, I returned to a market on which I have spent most of my waking hours over the last three months. Tasked with an in-depth assessment of this country's market potential for my client, I've read through countless studies, spent hours surfing websites, crunching numbers and sifting through annual reports. I've studied ownership structures and consumer behaviors, drafted focus group questionnaires and database queries, forecasted revenues and profits.
By and large, however, it happened from afar, with the internet's global reach empowering this quintessential desk researcher (a species closely related to the armchair voyager, bar the romance). So in theory, I knew quite a bit about Peru. And I thought I was well prepared.
Then I walked the streets of Lima. Smelled the exhaust fumes. Heard the noises. Eavesdropped on the local slang. Attended customer panels. Watched people shop at the grocery stores I knew the market shares of, fill up at the gas stations whose corporate mission statements I'd read, haggle at black market stalls which strangely eluded my research. And suddenly, like a genie from a bottle, a real country populated by real people started to emerge from the numbers. Was this a member of the C segment talking on this first pre-paid mobile phone? An A segment head-of-the-household flaunting his premium credit card? And look at these teenagers taking informal, unorganized colectivos back home!
As I sat down for lunch at an oceanfront restaurant (target audience: foreign visitors and urban affluent segment), observing the people strolling by, it became clear that no matter how much you read, how deep you dig, how far you forecast, you'll never be able to fully grasp the potential of a market until you've spoken to the people on the ground. It is they who can help you putting the pieces together and making sense of it all. They align any market potential analysis with real life by providing the crucial color and the essential local flavor.
And as if on cue, my waiter appeared with a wonderful plate of freshly prepared ceviche and an all-Peruvian Pisco Sour. Clearly, Peru has lots of potential.
# posted by Oli : 10:53
08 June 2011
Impression
"You never get a second chance to make a first impression", as popular wisdom has it. In the case of the Chilean capital, it had its chance with me some five years ago, when I first visited after several weeks of language immersion in sanguine and exuberant Buenos Aires. Compared to that, Santiago felt as orderly, wealthy and functional as many European cities would. I wondered why I had bothered to come at all.Now I'm back in town, and this time for a much longer time, and with a very different aim. Instead of sun, fun and nothing to do, I came to Chile with a mandate to work. And as I started to move into my tiny studio, realizing that "furnished" does not mean "ready to use", I was thankful for that oraganized and practical environment of Las Condes. This well-heeled Santiago neighborhood, where much of my life will take place, boasts several modern supermarkets which accept my credit card, a metro station, dry cleaners, a mega mall and even a large do-it-yourself store. The latter was particularly useful in creating a wired bypass around some dead outlets in my apartment. And the abundant, no nonsense cabs made bringing back my mini household prettystraight forward. No Porteño-style haggling required, thank you.
Once properly installed, I joined the throngs of people in their morning stride from the subway to the sleek office towers. Watching them, listening to their iPods and sipping Juan Valdez coffee in their charcoal Italian suits, they could have been on their way through the alleys of Manhattan or Frankfurt. Work is a serious affair here, and this translates into some of the world's longest office hours. Not what you'd expect for a Latin country, certainly.
The only people who seem to toil even more than the white collars must be the countless cleaners. Anywhere you look, somebody will be mopping, scrubbing, polishing, or picking leaves from the pavement (yes, it's autumn here). I can safely say that they put the Swiss to shame, seeing how today three different cleaners pushed their carts past my office door. Fortunately, so did one snack vendor, delivering freshly fried sopapillas directly to my desk. It is in the importance of food, and its social significance, that the Latin culture shines through. It was nice to be invited, as a matter of course, to join my new colleagues in their lunch breaks, which involve going out to a proper sit-down restaurant, rather than wolfing down a sandwich at your desk. And the work week usually ends with beers and games in the coffee room.
So while the first impressions may be of Germanic efficiency, time reveals a much more faceted and warm culture. It may seem trivial, but the fact that people hug or shake hands at work when they come and go acknowledges that we all spend more time with our colleagues than with our families. And the joy and curiosity with which the Santiaguinos engage this foreign visitor speaks of their openness. From my building's doorman to the elderly lady in the gym and the clerk in the department store, all are eager to chit chat. And they all seem puzzled by my Castellano's thick German-Argentine-English accent. Together with my name, on whose origin people have already placed bets, it apparently creates an intriguing impression as well. ;-)
All of this, and I haven't even left my neighborhood. But fear not - I firmly intend to go out explore some of this country's 6000km of variety when time allows. Each morning, as I watch the sun rise over the snow-capped cordillera while munching on my pan con manjar, I remind myself that sometimes, it's the second impression that counts.
# posted by Oli : 21:18
15 May 2011
Discovery
Life sometimes unfolds in serendipitous ways. My off-the-cuff decision to spend a summer in Montréal to learn French turned out to be a key factor in my eventual moving there. And now, the other such immersion stay I've undertaken, in Argentina and Chile, leads into an extended stay in the latter.Thanks to a work assignment requiring an on-site project manager, the Chilean capital will host me for about five months starting in June, and the knowledge of having volunteered for this opportunity fills me to equal measure with excitement and anxiousness. After all, while I feel comfortable with the topics of the workday, I have spent far less time assessing life outside the office at the foot of the Andes than I did in Montréal before deciding to move there.
Fortunately, my assignment currently gives me the opportunity to spend a week in Santiago before actually settling in, with an aim to get to know both the people and project I'll be working for, as well as the city itself. And so far, I am impressed. Shiny glass + steel office buildings, filled with smartly dressed professionals sipping their cortados while tapping on their iPads, enormous shopping malls with every convenience one could wish for, an efficient subway far more modern than Montréals, and streets that feel both quiet and clean for Latin American standards make this seem a very liveable city. My forays have helped tick off some key checkboxes (Functioning ATM: check. - Locall cell phone: check. - Dry cleaner: check. - Alfajores con dulce de leche: check. ) although some others (public indoor pool: fail. - Fresh non-UHT milk: fail. - Affordable supplies of Swiss chocolate: fail.) will likely mean a temporary change of lifestyle. All of this is part of the deal, as will be living through a (mild) Southern Hemisphere winter during my assignment, before returning to Canada just in time for their cold season.
Going through my "city discovery" to-do list this weekend, I was surprised by the degree of routine I appear to have developed. After London and Montréal, this is the third city I will make "mine" in just over two years, and in the process I seem to have learned to cover my bases. But I've also added reference points: Santiago sports the diverse neighbourhoods and large parks of Montréal, and the stunning snow-capped backdrop of Zurich. And yet it is far away from both of these places, and the friends I have made in them. Moving to Chile means leaving two homes and two social networks behind, so it is comforting to know that my sojourn will be interrupted by several "home visits", as well as hopefully some friends making the trip to Santiago. This way, the next few months will hopefully let me live the best of three worlds!
# posted by Oli : 17:56
17 March 2011
Daylight
No, this post is not about the corny 1996 action movie starring the venerable Sylvester Stallone - although remembering the moment where he emerges drenched from the Hudson River, only to have perfectly blow-dried hair in the next scene, still makes me laugh today.Much like the protagonists in said flick, the people living in higher latitudes are keen to get back to daylight after their long dark winters, when they frequently arrive at work in complete darkness and leave the office again under the same circumstances. Unsurprisingly, many head straight to the liquor store after days like that. ;-)
As the northern hemisphere moves towards summer, days automatically get longer again. But for the past 200 years, various countries have at various times resorted to trickery to further lenghten usable daytime. They did so through the introduction of daylight saving time, also known as summer time after the effect it produces: Shifting an hour of daylight from mornings to evenings during the summer months. That's bad for roosters, farmers and beer brewers, but for the ever-growing class of white collar office slaves, the extra hour of after-work sunlight is most welcome. The dramatic increase of evening joggers, along with the melting snow, is a sure sign that as of last weekend, summer time is upon us.
It was the Bush Administration which, with the Energy Policy Act of 2005, has extended the period of DST in the United States for three weeks into March, and one week into November, creating a temporary misalignment with Europe and a summer time which in fact covers almost two thirds of the year. They claimed that extending DST would help save energy, as people would use less artificial lighting in the evenings. Even though a study by the U.S. Department of Energy found that nationwide savings from extending DST amounted to a paltry 0.5%, most of Canada still decided to go along with the Americans - adding a time change to the usual border hassles was not applealing.
Unless, of course, you live in Saskatchewan. As I was politely informed by the CBC's morning news on Sunday, "all of Canada has set their watches one hour forward tonight, except for the province of Saskatchewan". That's right - time is a provincial affair in Canada, and those good people in Regina have decided to have none of this time change business. With the provinces around them changing time, this means that Saskatchewanians are aligned with Manitobans to the east in the winter, and with Albertans to the west in the summer. The fact that the prairie province is one of the few places where farmers (and roosters) still outnumber white collar workers is surely just a coincidence.
Daylight, clearly, is a serious matter and should not be taken lightly. I assume it was in recognition of this fact that executives on the top floor of our corporate headquarters have decided to remodel the work spaces, so that only the selected few in walled off outside offices get any exposure to it at all. Unlike hens and roosters, mere humans such as yours truly are kept firmly away from any daylight year-round, lest this create any sudden bursts of energy in their biorhythms. All we can do is wait until it's time to emerge from the workday, to whatever outside condition awaits us. Or maybe we could just tear down some walls? Ah, where is an action hero when you need one!
# posted by Oli : 20:26
19 December 2010
Mirror
There is a touch of Hollywood about them. Or of a police interrogation cell, should you have had that particular pleasure before. Either way, two-way mirrors are a clear separator of powers. You either have nothing to see, or nothing to say.This week, I unexpectedly found myself on the "silent" side of a two way mirror, as work afforded me an opportunity to attend focus groups with some unwitting customers. In both Montréal and Toronto, several groups of ten people were invited to participate in two hours sessions, during which they were exposed to various wild ideas we're playing with, and were asked them to share their views and thoughts on them. Meanwhile, my colleagues and I sat behind the two-way mirror, busily taking notes and exchanging the odd surprised look when one of our trial balloons got shot down by the crowd. (We were also constantly nibbling on the goodies the research company kept putting in front of us, but that's another story.)
Beyond the mere technicalities of what the test subjects like and dislike, however, you inevitably start noticing other things as well. You look at peoples' body language. How they are dressed. How they interact with the group. How frequently they help themselves to the cookie jar in the middle of the table. And, most importantly, how they express what they are thinking.
It was this last aspect, most of all, that showcased the notion of Franco- and Anglophone Canadians really being two different cultures. From an admittedly small sample, I nonetheless got a consistent image of the highly emotionally engaged, mercurial and unconstrained Québecois, contrasted by the friendly, curious, if slightly more detached Ontarians. The latter definitely reflected more of a business sense, the former were all about personal enjoyment and fulfillment.
Sitting there, listening and snickering for hours from my invisible vantage point, the two-way mirror ultimately helped me recognize how much I had grown affected to the people and the languages spoken in the Great White North. From the Anglos' typical "eh?" and the trandemark Canadian raising, to the unique French spoken in la belle province. It is only semi-consciously that I have started adopting le français québecois myself, with the frequent use of tu instead of vous, inverted questions (C'est-tu prêt?) and vocabulary (t'es bienvenue). By now, with colleagues at work starting to mock me for my messed up French, I have reached a point at which the dialect starts producing that fuzzy warm feeling associated with the language of where you belong.
High time, then, for me to switch from looking through a two-way mirror to peering out of an airplane window, down onto a small town, in a small country, where my true mother tongue is spoken - by my mother and the rest of the family gathered around the Christmas tree!
Labels: culture, language, work
# posted by Oli : 12:50
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