Circle of Trust
I learnt last week that the Circle of Trust is about to be broken. One of the members has jumped ship. That leaves 3 of us, and another possibly ready to bail...
The Circle of Trust is what myself and my three closest colleagues refer to ourselves as. There is CF --one of my best A'dam buds and fellow Canadian, MB --British partner in crime, MM --Polish sales guy and true character, and myself. (K is an honorary member, still with us in spirit).
It didn’t take us long to form our friendship. We quickly noticed that we were the ones staying the longest at the company functions, having the most fun, and partying the hardest (tequila may have been a recurring theme).
Today I was truly touched by their concern and thoughtfulness. The flowers brightened my day and the accompanying explanation “We’re only men, we have no idea if these flowers (white roses with red tips) are at all nice, but we thought they kinda looked like the Canadian flag” made me almost pee myself!
It’s a luxury to work with people who you actually enjoy spending time with!
Run Lola, Run!
My official training for the Dam tot Dam Loop started last week. I was in Germany with M and Karla, and decided to bite the bullet, get out of bed early and start the running schedule for the next 9 weeks.
The Dam to Dam run is held every year in Holland and appropriately named as you run from the centre of Amsterdam to the centre of Zaandam (a nearby town). The route is very picturesque with over 30,000 participants and 200,000 spectators.
We now have 8 more weeks to go, and so far so go. Dragging Moe out of bed yesterday morning wasn’t as difficult as I anticipated, considering our late Friday night running a Speed Dating in Amsterdam (strange but true!). After a relatively lethargic few months, it seems we are both raring to go.
We managed to train for over an hour yesterday (a combination of sprints and a long jog, followed by some interval training). I will admit that during the first ten minutes of running, I felt as though I was going to die. Why was it again that I got out of bed early to pound the pavement? Luckily after getting into the rhythm, my old endurance kicked in, perhaps stimulated by Moe's apparent effortless performance (I couldn’t let him kick my ass, could I?)
My boss signed the whole company up with the hopes of some sort of bonding experience due to our mutual pain. I haven’t told you the bad news yet...the run is 16km!! Yep, this will be no little feat--hence the hard core training for 9 weeks! (There is however, a 7km option, which we will both be as equally satisfied running).
And so, today is luckily a “rest day” on our training schedule (which includes 4 days of running a week). We have posted the schedule on the fridge and if for any reason one of us misses a day, we will have to pay up. What's a better motivator than cold hard cash?!
Throw Mama off the Train!
For all my ranting and raving on tolerance and acceptance, I will admit that I am probably a tad prejudice towards Americans. I just can’t help it. I can’t help that they speak in twelve decibels too loud. I can’t help that they don’t know anything about their bordering countries, and I can’t help they are always asking for directions here in Amsterdam, and then storming away without so much as a simple “thank you”.
I think I will blame it on Canada. Why not, after all didn’t the 911 terrorists come through Canada?! (For those of you who know me well, you will know that this is one of my favorite ignorant statements). I will blame it on the “little brother syndrome”, the “(smaller) rival country complex”, found between the US and Canada, Holland and Germany, Holland and Belgium and of course, Australia and New Zealand.
So, on my supposedly peaceful train ride to Paris I again encounter by favorite breed of American ---the loud-middle aged- fanny pack wearing- tourist from hell. Now I must interrupt my story before I even start this awful rant of mine. Please no offense, I will admit that the woman described in this story could have equally been a Canadian, and that there are many “ugly Canadian tourists” out there as well. But this story wouldn’t be that funny if it was about a Canuk, would it?
So anyways, I am thoroughly enjoying my complimentary breakfast in first class, when I am interrupted by a very loud “Excuse me ma’am”. In front of me decked out in runners, shorts, a hard-rock Hawaii t-shirt (no lie), and fanny pack, is my worst nightmare. “You’re in myyy seat!” I take out my ticket and check my seat again. Hard-rock Hawaii is staring back at me, annoyed with my silence. She says louder than necessary “Please get out of myyy seat!!”. I show her my ticket and just my luck it turns out that the train has overbooked us and we are in fact both entitled to this seat.
The problem isn’t that we have the same seat. The problem is that somehow this woman feels as though she is more entitled to this seat than I am. She has the nerve to ask me to leave since she “booked this seat ages ago in (unknown small town USA)”. Reverting back to my 5 year old self, I refuse to get up. I refuse to leave my seat, and I refuse to discuss the situation any further. In fact, I stare forward and instead think happy thoughts. Something about this woman in really irking me. Is it her florescent t-shirt, circa 1990, scorching my eyeballs, or the fact that she insists on speaking in a volume that is unacceptable by all social standards. She eventually storms off and I am very pleased by my small victory.
Canada 1 point, US 0!
Case #2
There is this cute little gadget shop near the hotel I always stay at in Paris. On my way back from lunch with my mother I spy a stylish little picnic set in the window. Bright colours and polka dots stare back and lure me in. I quickly breeze around the store, reminding myself sternly of yesterday’s overspending.
As I am about to leave, a little ornament by the cash register catches my eye. It looks like a small metallic mandarin orange. Hmmm, funky. I pick it up, shake it, and tip it upside down. Nothing. I notice a small button on the top and press it. Again nothing. I press it again, this time a bit harder, and hear a faint noise. Ah ha, a radio! Lifting it up to my ear, I notice my mother’s face from across the store. She is looking at me completely dumbfounded, like I have just pulled a gun out of my bag, or flashed the cute cashier.
It takes a second to register what has just happened. Eeek, fire! I look up, and see the side of my hair burst into flames. Next thing I know the cute cashier has jumped across the counter and is madly pounding on the side of my head and muttering in French. Utter humiliation. The fire is put out. The whole store is now looking at me, with perplexed looks on their faces.
My mother and I collapse outside the shop in a heap of laughter. Stares follow us. I hear a fellow tourist whisper, "Did that girl just put a lighter to her head?"
Yep. Yes, she did!
WARNING: Paris is bad for your health
Don’t be disillusioned by the beautiful architecture, the smell of freshly baked croissants drifting from the patisseries or the beautiful people milling around. Paris is bad for your health. Or at least it is in my case.
The last two trips I have taken to Paris have somehow resulted in bizarre, and yes, slightly painful situations. Do I attract these situations? Is it a coincidence? I will give you this much--I will admit that in both cases, I may have been partially to blame.
Case #1
I had been working at an exhibition at La Defense all week. I was tired, and it was 6:00pm, and of course, the French were striking again. The esplanade was full of busy rushing people frantically trying to reach the metro entrance first, in order to squeeze themselves onto the car like sardines.
Truth be told I may have glanced away from my path, I may have been looking at a market stall, selling the exact bag I had been searching for all week. The one with the multi-coloured sequences... Regardless, next thing you know *SMACK*. I have no idea what has just happened. I feel a sharp pain on the right side of my forehead. Tears are now streaming down my face. I’m swaying to catch my balance. I grab the pavement for some stability. Black dots invade my vision. I hear man above me apologizing in French. Asking if I am alright. I want to say yes, but “Non, pas vraiement”, comes out of my mouth.
As I realize what has just happened ---this man, in the suit, who I saw rushing, out of the corner of my eye just moments ago, has tripped and flown smack into my head. I’ve cushioned his blow---he still seems frantic, and although dazed I realize, that, based on his tone, I have somehow inconvenienced him. It appears my head was in the way. I have just made him more late for whatever pressing engagement he was rushing to. He asks me one more time if I am alright and at the first hint of a nod, he is off. Yep, off! Off and back to the races.
I am left wondering. Should I be thankful that he even stopped and asked if I was alright?
Case #2 to follow...
p.s Am off to Paris again tomorrow for a week. This time I will pay attention for flying French men!
