Extreme Telecommuting -- An Office Odyssey


these weeks in the odyssey
8.23.99 -- 9.6.99
zurich, paris, edinburgh




Straight Outta Switzerland

You may not know it (or even believe it), but Switzerland has recently been swept up in a Gangsta Rap craze. From Geneva to Zurich, jackhammer breakbeats are pumping out of every milk bar, chalet, and pasture as fresh-faced MCs get on the mic to drop some Swiss science freestyle. Perhaps the most exciting purveyors of this aggressive new blend of American hip-hop and Swiss attitude are the notorious MC Juergen and the Fondudes, whose recent single, "As Neutral As I Wanna Be" is making a rapid assault on the top of the European pop charts. Rabid rap fan that she is, Kristanne has been completely caught up in the fervor. That picture at right is of Kristanne in the Zurich Art Museum (the Kunsthaus) getting ready to bust a few of her best breakdance moves while she raps along with her heroes:




Big Art is Better Art


Yo, pump the bass\ And bring the cheese\ When I ask for fondue\ I don't say please.
Like Ulrich Zwingli\ You know that I'm loco\ I eat your raclette and I drink your cocoa.
When I get on the mic\ Domination is total\ Of sucker MC's\ Who just can't yodel.
Yo-da-lay-hee and Yo-da-lay-ho\ I'm as neutral as they come\ And I play in the snow...snow...snow...


Unfortunately for us, the guards at the Kunsthaus were none too fond of Kristanne's performance, hustling us out of the museum and informing us that we had twenty-four hours to leave the country before they, as they put it, "busted a cap on our collective ass for dissing their man." Word.

Eager to avoid a throwdown with Swiss gangbangers, we packed up our backpacks, cleaned our apartment, and started the somewhat daunting process of figuring out how the heck we were going to get to Edinburgh from Zurich. As with all big decisions of this nature, we began by contemplating our navels. When our navels proved incapable of transporting us across international boundaries, we moved on to contemplating air travel. When air travel proved incapable of transporting anyone with a net worth less than that of the Sultan of Brunei (flights were checking in higher than $1000!), we moved on to contemplating trains. When trains, too, proved to be remarkably expensive, we moved on to contemplating burglary, dealing drugs, or maybe just whacking someone for the Russian mafia to get some funds. Things were looking dire.

Just as I was about to call my old pal Sergei The Mad Borscht (long story...don't ask), Kristanne hit upon the bright idea of renting a car and driving it to Calais, France, where we could catch the ferry over to the U.K. We'd been lucky with this so far, getting rates for cars that were far less expensive than trains or planes. Unfortunately for us, this time rental cars were looking pretty expensive, too, owing to the incredibly steep fees associated with renting a car in one country and dropping it off in another. As I embarked on my usual crisis-management scheme of repeatedly banging my forehead against the wall, mechanically exclaiming, "Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow." with each dull thud, Kristanne whipped out a map of Europe and astutely noticed that Switzerland was (and is) quite close to France. "So," says she, "why don't we just take this relatively cheap train to France, rent the car there, drive back to Switzerland to pack up all our stuff, and then go to Calais, thereby avoiding the stiff drop-off fee?" Well, why not indeed?

Faster than you can say, "my wife is a genius," we had an icepack on my forehead and Kristanne on a train to Mulhouse (a smallish town just over the Swiss-French border) to pick up our rental car. Our time in Switzerland was rapidly drawing to a close and it was with much wist (umm, that is, we were wistful) that we said our goodbyes to the Alpen land that had been so hospitable to us. Together, we broke out in a spontaneous rendition of "The Hills Are Alive with the Sound of Music" as we climbed into the car and pointed ourselves west to Paris, awash in memories from the last six weeks.

Being awash in memories can make you somewhat gamey after a while, though, so we stopped at a gas station to towel off before we got to France. We wouldn't want to offend the delicate olfactory sensibilities of the locals, after all. But where the heck were the locals? Perhaps you already knew this, but it appears that outside of Paris no one actually lives in France. Sure, there were a couple of towns, but they appeared to be completely uninhabited. Miles and miles of unbroken farmland stretched out before us, all completely unfettered by human existence. We did hear that there might be one guy living somewhere near Orleans, but were unable to verify this firsthand. What was going on? Had everyone just cleared out for the big Yanni concert scheduled for that evening in Paris? Riddles abounded.

Riddles began to unabound as we drew closer to Paris. The entire population of France plus that of Luxembourg, Belgium, and most of the Netherlands appears to live in Paris. They just commute to their houses on weekdays. Traffic drew to a grinding standstill, reminding us of nothing so much as our happy times on the highways of the former East Germany last week. Still, with Kristanne's able navigation pointing the way, we were managing to make our way towards our appointed destination, even eking our way through some rather amazing uncontrolled intersections. Picture an intersection roughly the size of that of Broadway and 45th in Times Square. Now, picture that intersection with two more roads, no traffic lights, and a bunch of small, unshaven people screaming in French and throwing croissants at each other. That's pretty much what driving in Paris is like. As I went into complete and utter panic mode, covering my eyes and quivering like Newt Gingrich's fifth chin, Kristanne instructed me to, "Drive like you mean it, wimpburger! They sense fear!" Kristanne can get kinda aggressive, sometimes.


It's the fresh sprig of mint that makes the difference.

Narrowly avoiding a severe beating at the hands of an elderly baguette-wielding French matron who had the misfortune of finding herself in a crosswalk while I was driving, we slid into a parking spot next to our hotel well ahead of the appointed hour. Boy, did we need a drink. Thankfully, our host, Doug "The Human Compass" was only too happy to oblige. Assuring us that he knew this great bar near "that museum, whaddyacallit, the 'Louvre', or maybe next to that river, on that one street with cobblestones, y'know?", Doug soon had us on the Metro heading towards what he assured us was downtown and imminent festivities. Doug is sort of a wily stalker of the perennial good time. He likes to lull the good time into a false sense of security by circling it in ever-shrinking concentric rings until he finally pounces on it with a bloodcurdling shriek. It's actually rather disturbing. So, after a half hour of wily stalking, we eventually found ourself seated in the very bar that you see pictured there at left, our inexpressible needs for drink finally finding their voice in the curious concoction known only as "Quetzalcoatl." There's not much I can really say about the "Quetzalcoatl," except for maybe, "Wow," or "Sheesh," or even "Good lord, give me another one of those."


Like Moctezuma, however, Quetzalcoatl will have his revenge. So, it was to be a decidedly sluggish trio that eventually descended our hotel stairs the next morning (umm, afternoon) for breakfast with our other Parisian Pal, Danny C. and his Biz School Crew. Now, when I think of Parisian breakfasts, I think of cafe' au lait, beignets, croissants, pain au chocolat, lots of money, that sort of thing. I don't usually think of rashers of bacon, baked beans, fried eggs, English sausages, and pancake after pancake after pancake. This just goes to show that I have not spent a heckuva lot of time in Paris. After a feeding that lasted approximately the duration of the Franco-Prussian war, we managed to remain standing just long enough to snap that picture you see there at right. That's Dan third from the left with his girlfriend Lindsey, surrounded by his "cronies" or "chums," if you prefer. Business school friends are always "cronies" or "chums," in case you were wondering.

After breakfast, we decided to head on over to Notre Dame and do a little sightseeing. Actually, "we" might be a little bit of an overstatement. "I" decided to sit on the curb and wait until the word "Quetzalcoatl" had passed from my vocabulary. However, "I" was overruled, so "we" decided to go to Notre Dame. This lesson in small group dynamics has been brought to you free of charge from the Institute for Applied Marital Harmony.

It was at Notre Dame that we learned that Doug is not only "The Human Compass," but also the "Child of Satan." As the rest of us took in the splendors of Notre Dame's soaring ceilings, glorious stained glass, and slightly frightening organ music, Doug's nose began to erupt in great geysers of blood. This was slightly disturbing. Apparently, the slight cold Doug had been fighting since our arrival had taken a new and slightly nasty turn for the worse. As a group of agitated nuns began to surround Doug, chanting French things, we thought it best to effect our immediate exit, thereby avoiding any religious confrontations in the holiest church in France. Just doing our part to promote cultural sensitivity, y'know?

Boy, I could sure go for another pancake.

Please stand before pressing button.

With Doug temporarily occupied stanching the flow of blood from his schnoz, Kristanne and I thought it was the perfect time to evaluate the quality of French toilets (you've got to be open to opportunity for opportunity to find you). Now, most French toilets are still of the hole in the ground variety, featuring two traction-enhanced places for your feet (presumably so as to avoid falling into the hole) and little else. The French, demonstrating a convenient knack for passing the buck, call these "Turkish Toilets," placing the blame for their own lack of hygiene squarely on the backs of the innocent Turks. No word yet on what the Turks call their own toilets, though we wouldn't blame them if it was something like "Franco-Potty."

Before we lose everyone but the second graders (and anybody else who just really thinks bathrooms are the height of hilarity), I'll cut to the chase and let you know that we were pleasantly surprised to find that the French have made great strides in bathroom technology since our last visit. Check out that modern-looking commode pictured at left! This was found in an Actual French Restaurant in Actual France. Now, look closely at that ingenious little button at the left...pressing that causes a little machine to cycle out a fresh toilet seat cover for your enjoyment! Wisely, the French decided to only add this feature to the women's restroom, reasoning quite correctly, no doubt, that the men would just stay in there all day pushing the button over and over to watch the little cover come out magically. And, yes, Kristanne did take this picture. I was only allowed to live the moment vicariously through her.


Even the miracles of modern plumbing can only stimulate you for so long, though. So, after another festive evening in Paris with Dan, Doug, Lindsey, and the rest of the crew, we packed our belongings back into our rental car and continued west to Calais and the United Kingdom that reportedly lay beyond. Kristanne, unfortunately, was not feeling too well. The tubercular cough she had contracted just prior to our departure from Switzerland was worsening, compounded by the mild case of the Bubonic Plague she had picked up from Doug. It's no fun when you've got the Black Death, but Kristanne was persevering nicely, even managing to crack a wry grin when I introduced her to our fellow ferry passengers as, "Kristanne, my loogie-hocking wife." Then, she cracked a wry blow across my shins with her right foot, dropping me like a sack of potatoes before continuing her coughing. She's a real trooper, I tell you.

Soon, the storied white cliffs of Dover came into view, looming improbably up from the English channel like some really big white cliffs. Please feel free to use that lyrical description of the white cliffs of Dover -- "really big white cliffs" -- in your own writings without crediting me. I really don't mind.

There'll be bluebirds over...the white cliffs of Dover.

Upon arriving in Dover, we met our first real challenge of the whole trip. Picking up our new rental car (we had to drop the original one off back in Calais), I realized that the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car. I realized this once I opened the left door of the car, got in, and tried to put the key in the non-existent slot. "That's funny," I thought. "Usually there's a steering wheel here." Nuclear physicist that I very nearly was (well, up until I decided that all the chemistry classes met far too early in the morning for me ever to attend them), it eventually dawned on me that the steering wheel was in fact on the other side of the car. A subsequent dawning led me to realize that in addition to the steering wheel being on the wrong side of the car, the cars were also on the wrong side of the road. This dawning came in the form of Kristanne's frightened scream at the sight of an oncoming diesel truck. I had been assuming that the truck was merely passing someone and would soon find his way back to his rightful side of the road. Nope -- he was definitely staying on his leftful side of the road, flashing his brights and honking his horn at me. Veering quickly to my own left, I vowed to remain vigilant in remembering that things were backward here in the U.K. My vigilance lasted approximately until I had to shift the car into the next gear, at which point I found myself rapidly opening and closing my power windows. Hmm. This sucks. Two near misses later, Kristanne forcibly ejected me from the driver's seat so she could take over. Having spent some time in Japan (where they also drive on the left side of the road), Kristanne made the transition seamlessly and we were soon confidently heading northward through London, Birmingham, and Manchester, en route to our final destination of Edinburgh.


Great Scot! It's a castle!

Since Edinburgh was supposed to be a nine hour drive from Dover, we had originally planned to stop somewhere along the way and get a hotel for the night. As anyone who has followed this Odyssey could have predicted, though, we rejected that plan somewhere around Manchester, deciding that we would just keep driving without stopping until we got there. I mean, shoot -- why stop when you can drive?

We rolled into Edinburgh around 1:00 AM, feeling about as frisky as a chewed-up piece of shoe leather. Fortunately, the first hotel we looked at had a room available at a decent price, so we were quickly asleep. First, though, we took that picture of the Edinburgh castle you see there at left, spookily illuminated amid the nighttime shadows.

Morning came with bees in our collective bonnet. Operating with our usual strategy of "the best plan is no plan," we didn't have an apartment lined up for our stay in Edinburgh. So, with a speed usually associated only with cheetahs and parents fleeing "Hanson" concerts, it was off to the newsstand for the morning paper and a perusal of the rental listings. Surprisingly, furnished apartments appeared to be widely available, and even at prices we could afford. A few phone calls let us know why this was true, though -- landlords were required by law to accept minimum six month leases, thereby restricting the more affordable housing to people who were in for the long haul. Since we only wanted to stay for two months, we soon found ourselves on the phone with the few agencies that would work with short term, "holiday" leases. Though the first agency's official motto of "Screwing Tourists Since 1973" was somewhat offputting, we bit the bullet and went in to see what was available. They showed us a couple places that were okay, but nothing to write your congressman about. Or home, for that matter. Or, really even a webpage. So, we decided to call the second agency. They gave us an address to look at but cautioned us that they would not be able to show us the actual flat for some several days due to the owner's illness. We decided to look anyway and, boy, are we ever glad we did. The location turned out to be mere steps off of Edinburgh's Royal Mile, surrounded by pubs, and restaurants, and pubs, and galleries, and pubs. There are a lot of pubs in Edinburgh.


So, we bit down even harder on the bullet we were already biting from the last paragraph and holed up in a hotel room for a couple days to wait for our prospective landlord to recover her health enough to show us the flat. Though it looked like we wouldn't be breaking our personal apartment-finding record from Switzerland (one and a half days), it did look like we could be up for a significant upgrade in our accommodations. Plus, it gave us a chance to check out a bit of Edinburgh while we still had our rental car, kill some time with touring. We even got to take styling pictures like that one at right. That's me down in Leith (the old dock district of Edinburgh), hanging out on a bridge in front of a restaurant. Like I said, we had some time to kill.

Why, yes, that *is* a new jacket...thanks!

There's no wood because there are no trees

Edinburgh is quite a beautiful city, full of dramatic views of the castle high atop its craggy volcanic peak at center of town, the Firth of Forth (possibly the coolest name for a body of water I've ever heard), and the consistently impressive architecture abounding throughout the city. The city has a real medieval feel to it, full of old stone buildings, tiny winding alleys ("closes," as they call them), and impressive old monuments. Tempering this medieval feel somewhat is the slightly staggering amount of tourists here. It would be more than a little like the pot looking at the kettle through rose-colored glasses for us to complain about tourists, but we're not afraid to look a gift horse in the mouth when stuck between a rock and a hard place, if you know what I mean (and I hope to heck someone does, since I sure don't). The month of August in Edinburgh is "Festival Month," a time, as the name would suggest, of many festivals. This contributes to the quite amazing swell of humanity darkening every doorstep in the greater Edinburgh area.

That this was still "Festival Month" made it all the more amazing that the apartment we were to look at was even available. After three days at the hotel, we headed over well before the appointed hour, practically salivating to move in, regardless of its condition. As it turned out, we had nothing to fear -- the place was amazing, with two bedrooms, a living room, and a spacious kitchen, all up on the top floor of our three-story building. We practically ripped the contract out of our somewhat stunned landlord's hand so we could sign it before she changed her mind. As it turned out, a movie critic in town for the Film Festival had decided to leave a few days early...otherwise we would have been out of luck. The best plan is no plan...the best plan is no plan...the best plan is no plan.


Our new apartment finally settled, we quickly set off on a short walk to explore Holyrood Park, a giant expanse of open space just south of Edinburgh. It was there that we spied the football (soccer, natch) game that you see taking place at right. We were a little bit worried about approaching too closely at first, what with the reputation for hooliganism so rampant amongst the U.K.'s footballers. Still, like a moth to the flame (or Jerry Springer to a one-armed transvestite hooker), we were drawn ever closer. Not that we needed to be close -- these guys all appeared to be cursing simultaneously at the tops of their lungs, punctuating every other word with a heartfelt "f#*@'ing."

At first, I thought this cursing was just limited to footballers or the drunks in pubs. However, a few days walking around the city has shown us that quite simply everybody in Scotland curses, often at great length. It appears to be a form of spiritual nourishment for them, reveling in it as they do. I was somewhat taken aback the first time I passed a father and his young seven year old son walking down the street, only to hear the youngster exclaim that, "I want a f#*@'ing ice cream cone Da'." The father was completely unfazed by this, replying as he did, "Nae, ye'll spoil ye'r f#*@'ing dinner, lad. There'll be no f#*@'ing ice cream for ye 'til later." Seven year olds appear to grow up much more quickly here in Edinburgh -- yesterday's paper positively screamed an account of a wilding pack of up to 30 seven year olds attacking a 37 year old man as he made the mistake of trying to cross a darkened park after nightfall. I swear I'm not making this up -- the man was spotted tearing out of the park at a full sprint, the pack of seven year olds nipping at his heels. Needless to say, we aren't planning any night picnics any time soon.

Just before the soccer hooligans beat us senseless.

Less dangerous than Switzerland's.

Still, we decided to brave the potential dangers of marauding seven year olds and head off to the big fireworks show Edinburgh puts on to mark the end of the Festival Month. The castle provided an amazing backdrop for the show -- they poured waterfalls of fireworks over the sides of the walls, making it appear as it it were under siege and that they were pouring pots of boiling oil onto the heads of their evil attackers. Edinburgh has a sort of violent past and the Scots really seem to cherish every bloody bit of it, making frequent reference to the various attackers they have thwarted and subsequently drawn, quartered, and impaled on the city's gates. They also talk a lot about the really good shortbread they make, though, so there's definitely a lighter side to the whole thing. And, hey -- check out that refugee from the Zurich Street Parade there in the lower right corner of that shot. Who said punk is dead?


Once the fireworks were over, we retired to one of the approximately ten thousand pubs that positively infest the Edinburgh landscape. Pubs are somewhat different here than they are in the states -- there's no real implied debauchery or seediness that goes along with them. Though people can and do get entirely loaded in these places, they're also a great place just to get a meal. You'll also see a far greater cross-section of the population in a Scottish pub than you will in an American one, with tons of older folks (right on up the proverbial little old white-haired lady) in addition to the usual twenty-somethings. It's a great social scene, full of friendly people willing to chat for a while about whatever (of course, it doesn't hurt that we sort of speak the same language). Keeping my promise from last week's page, I went ahead against my better judgment and tried a wee dram of Scotch, just for you, the reader back home. It was a Bowmore 15 year old, and boy, it was actually pretty tasty. Next week, we're going to the Scotch Whisky Heritage Center, so we'll have a little more history for you on the whole "water of life" thing. Meanwhile, we'll be hanging out in the pubs, trying to avoid the seven year olds. Drop by if you get a chance!

See you next time on the Odyssey!

These are both Kristanne's.


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When the moon hits your eye, like a big...croissant?

As for that scenic shot over there at left, that's the full moon rising directly over the Louvre museum in Paris. We probably should have gone to the Louvre museum while we were in Paris, but we opted to go to a nearby bar, instead, trying out drinks with names like "Banana Banshee," "Dead Pants," "Moctezuma's Full-Throated Laughter," and "beer." It was a tough call, but we think we made the right decision.

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