New Years Eve

And so here I am in Melbourne for New Years Eve. Who would have thought a year ago as I was sitting in a little beach cabin in the Queen Charlotte Islands in northern British Columbia that my next New Years Eve would be spent on the flip side of the planet. Life.

So, just a quick post to check in and say 'hello'. I'm finding it hard to make time to write while I'm here... for one thing, I didn't bring my laptop with me so I'm on my friend's computer... for another, I don't feel overly inspired to write. Things are happening, but I feel like I need time to process them before I can say too much. I will say that it's a much different holiday than I thought I might be having.

My impression so far is that Melbourne is a friendly, friendly place. The people here are lovely. Before coming here, I thought Canadians were completely warm and wonderful, but Australians make us seem like (specific cultural reference deleted because I've got to live there, afterall).

Yesterday we went on a Yarra Valley wine tour. Very nice. I've never tasted bacon in my wine before and honestly, I have to say that there is no going back. Now, if I can just find a wine that tastes of avacado and tomato I may never eat solid food again.

A couple days ago we went to the Dandenong Ranges for lunch and a little hike. A flock of Rosella birds landed all over me as I fed them chips -- this before reading the 'please don't feed our animals potato chips because they are getting fat' sign. Never mind. We all enjoyed our potato chip party very much. Also, I saw my first Kookaburra. He was seriously cute -- he looked like he was wearing a little sweater. And yes, it was sitting in an old gum tree.

Other than that, there has been much visiting with Robin's friends as well as lots of retail. Honestly I can't take much more retail.

Oh! I almost forgot! Remember the annoying low-level hum in my apartment that has been driving me mad, mad, mad??? Well, by a shockingly improbable coincidence, Robin has exactly the same low-level hum in her apartment!

Actually, as you've probably already guessed: Neither I nor Robin has a low-level hum in our apartments. Rather, I have tinnitus.

This makes me sad.

Also, it makes me cringe when I think about dragging my poor landlord into my place at midnight and how annoyed I was that he wouldn't admit that he could hear the humming.

There doesn't seem to be any cure for it... but optimistically, I certain it can be cured. Anyone got any treatment suggestions?

Christmas Eve
It's 8:30am on Christmas Eve. I'm having a coffee having just come in from a run by the river. There will be much eating these next two days and my run is my attempt to cover the spread.

Running in Melbourne isn't much fun. It's not as naturey as my little corner of Belgium and there is lots more brush fire smoke in the air, but I'm planning to persist. I don't expect to lose weight while here, but I'm not gaining any. HA!

Today I've got a pedicure booked, then Robin and I will spritz up the house for some Christmas entertaining. Later tonight we're having Polish-style Christmas dinner with Gosha, another UK-exile. Mmmmmm.. pierogies...

I've been here only 3 days and I've already spent my holiday budget. All on clothes. Melbourne fashions are soooo... lovely. Why didn't someone warn me??!!!

En Route to Oz

December 19 -- This morning Yoka drove me to the airport. Last night I had casually dropped the comment that fog was one of the few weather phenomena that could seriously delay flights out of London. For those not familiar with the literary term for this, it's "foreshadowing".

Fucking London. I mean, one of the biggest international hubs in Europe in the foggiest city. Great idea.

Anyway, my flight, an expensive and gruelling 20-hr journey from Brussels to London to Melbourne on British Airways was about to get much worse. I was rerouted to a series of Thai Air flights: Brussels to Frankfurt to Bangkok to Sydney to Melbourne. This added a day to my trip. Gah.

Me at the airport:
Are upgrades possible? No
Shorter flight plan? No
Meal coupons? No
Ok. Resigned to what was clearly going to be a like-it-or-lump-it adventure, I proceeded to my 1st security check:

Man: Can you open your bag
Me: Sure (opens bag)
Man: You have a bottle of water in here
Me: Yes. Well, no. It's in a water bottle, but it's Curl-Keeper... for my hair
Man: You can not take it
Me: (imagining my hair 40 hours henceforth without it) That's impossible. Look, it's for my hair (puts some in hair. Smiles pathetically and non-effectively)

Man: It is not the hair product... it's that you have it in a 50cl container
Me: Yes, but it's only 1/3 full
Man: It does not matter
Me: (trying to imagine a world where we are all safer without 50cl bottles)... Uh, ok, can I put it in a different container? Do you have a zip-lock baggie (note: I had once smuggled a large bottle of vodka into a music festival in a zip-lock baggie, so I knew it was I was talking about)
Man: I have to call my supervisor
Me: uhhhhhhh...

Man: (explains imminent security threat posed by me and my frizzy hair in Flemish to supervisor)

Me: (smiles pathetically and non-terroristically)... I really need this for my hair. Can I please have a baggie?

Supervisor: (suspiciously hands me zip-lock baggie)

I pour my precious Curl-Keeper into the baggie and immediately have a clear image of it bursting like a water balloon all over my carry-on luggage. I don't yet know it, but in 30 hours I will be using my carry-on luggage as a pillow.
Me: (Staring intensely into the supervisor's eyes) I'm going to need a 2nd baggie.

I'm handed a 2nd baggie and make it past checkpoint #1. So far so good.

Inside the departures lounge, I buy a 50cl bottle of Dasani water that has, apparently, undergone rigorous airport security clearance protocols and is deemed not a terrorist threat.

I wait for my first flight.

I start to realize that this trip will be the longest of my life. I need a plan. All good plans start with an inventory. Here's mine:

Carry-On:
-- Big feather pillow
-- Food: Mandarin oranges (5), Chocolate, Mixed nuts, Cookies
-- Books: Brave New World, Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy, Last Days of Dogtown, and an Aussie travel mag
-- Curlkeeper
-- Earplugs
-- Toiletries bag with usual toiletries
-- Jetlag pills (HAHAHA)
-- Mobile phone
-- iPod, fully charged
-- Digital camera

My flight is announced with the standard

"... to board most efficiently, we ask that only passengers in rows 10-28..."

The entire lounge darts for the gate. Belgians don't get cueing.

Ok, so my big plan goes something like this:

Stay calm -- always. Roll with the punches and try not to become an exception to any more airport protocols.
No alcohol. I need a clear head, and don't need to be dehydrated. I suspect "no alcohol" will be the 2nd rule I break, following quickly on the heels of "stay calm". But we'll see
Stay hydrated. No alcohol will help. Drinking lots of water will help. Not panicking will help.
Organize my flight papers. Rather than 1 boarding pass, I now have this:

The one on the bottom right is a handwritten piece of paper that basically says "... and then fly her somehow from Sydney to Melbourne, we don't give a shit how you do it". I'm told not to lose this one in particular. I'm told I can "probably exchange it for a boarding pass in Sydney". I intend not to lose it. The suspense is killing me.

"Organize my flight papers" is my trickiest rule as I am notoriously poor at keeping my travel papers together. I have lost boarding passes, e-tickets, and itineraries; I've left my passport at airport Starbucks counters. I consider buying a Kipling passport wallet, but can't do it. I'm sorry, but Kipling is hellishly ugly. All of it.

Sleep. I will sleep as much as possible using any means possible to secure as much legroom as possible.
Eat lightly and often.
Stay clean. At 35,000 feet, the human body starts to decompose in about 12 hours. My flight is 2 days.

Having flown a lot, there are a few things I know that I intend to use to augment my plan. At this point in my trip, I'm not yet aware that I needn't bother hope for the following:

Upgrading from economy class. Upgrading to business class is difficult but not impossble. In Frankfurt I intend to pull my very bestest "hard-done-by passenger" act. I'm hopeful but not overly optimistic.
Accessing the lounges. Barring the ability to secure a free upgrade, I'm determined to obtain access to the BA or Lufthansa lounge once in Bangkok. I'm reserving my "exhausted but charming passenger" schtick for this. It has never failed me.

With my plan and travel wisedom in hand, I settle into my first flight enroute to Frankfurt. I sip orangejuice and fantasize about the mandarin oranges that are stowed in the overhead bin. The only thing separating us is about 180kilos of German men sitting in the aisle and center seats. I give up the thought.

I add "Exercise legs often" to my plan. I've heard of people having strokes on these flights. I don't intend to be one of them.

Lufthansa hands me a Christmas cookie shaped like a star. Lufthansa loves me and wants me to be happy.

Body-odour status: Shower fresh

Stage 2: Frankfurt to Bangkok
The Frankfurt airport is big, smelly and full of helpful yet unpleasant Germans.

I pass the time between flights engaged in my favorite airport activity: giving myself a mini-facial in the dutyfree using testers of products that I can't afford. I spend the rest of the time avoiding sneezers.

At my gate, I know before asking that the Frankfurtian agent will not upgrade me to business class. I ask anyway. I'm not upgraded.

Looking around the boarding lounge, I see that my flight is completely full. I wonder which of these people I will be seated next to... the loud Italians perhaps? Some of the visible Muslims who I saw being 'randomly' selected to participate in a 'random' screening? The screaming Thai kids? I don't want to sit next to any of them.

I need to tell Robin that I will be arriving a day later than planned. I put some coins into an internet kiosk whose keyboard is all mixed up. I spend 80-cents hunting for the "@" key. I write a quick email to Robin, spelling "Sydney" with two "V"s because this keyboard doesn't have an obvious "Y".

I board my flight. The pretty Taiwaneese stewardesses bow politely to welcome us. They are resplendant in pink, purple, and orange -- the same colours as the plane seats. If one of these planes ever blows up mid-air, it will look like confetti. Very festive.

My seatmate turns out to be an interesting looking woman of about 25 with nose piercing, a tattoo, jet black hair and a button on her carry-on that says "fuck all the rules" and another that says "Satan, get in line". I'm relieved not to be seated next to someone heading to Thailand to have sex with kids.

The plane's music system is playing game-show music. I anticipate bubbles. I expect Leisure Suit Larry to throw the switch on the overhead disco lighting. I realize I'm having the kinds of delerious thoughts I'm not supposed to start having for at least another 12 hours.

They announce a flying time of 10 hours to Bangkok.
Ten hours.

Three hours into the flight I fall asleep and am woken up by a lovely purple stewardess who tells me my pillow is blocking the other passengers' ability to watch the feature film Garfield. I grumpily ask if she was waking me up to thank me.

This is the view of the movie that I have:
My seatmate and I chat. She is really interesting and engaging. She nearly convinces me to ditch my next flight and hang out with her for a couple of days in Bangkok.

Many hours later, as I'm trying to get comfortable in a florescent-lit area in the Sydney airport trying to sleep across 2 armrests I recall this conversation and I am certain that I made a mistake in not staying. But that's hours away, and we're about to land in Bangkok.

My next flight departs 3 minutes after this one lands.

Running to my next gate, I take this photo, which is all I get to see of Thailand:

Next leg: Bangkok to Sydney

By some miracle, I make it to my next gate just as they are closing the flight. I'm in yet another Barbie confetti plane. This time in a window seat which in 5 hours will feel like a cage.

Pre-takeoff SMS just received from Robin:

Got your notice of delay. Shame. Seems to me that Bangkok is a good spot for dutyfree champagne. Any poss to pick up a few bottles?

Uhmm, nope.

To this point, my plan is holding out. I haven't panicked once and I've been drinking lots of liquids, only one of which was a small glass of red wine with dinner. So far, so good. I fall asleep and 2 hours later I wake up with jumpy legs.

I don't know if you've ever had jumpy legs, but it's a bit like claustrophobia from the waist down. Awful. I feel like I HAVE to get up, get away, get moving NOW! I climb over my seatmates.

I will now share with you my never-before-disclosed Secret Weapon for securing oodles of space on a longhaul flight...

On a jam-packed flight, the stewards will pile their inflight articles across 3 seats next to the emergency exit near the kitchen, and noone will sit there. To sit in these seats, do the following: Walk up slowly to the Emergency exit, looking at the door, but not making eye contact with the stewards, and don't look at the seats you're trying to secure. Stop at the Emergency exit. When a steward approaches you, make the following sequence of eye movements:
Look at them directly in the eye
Look at the Emergency door handle
Look at the floor
Look at them directly in the eye

They will now have your full attention and will ask if they can help you with anything.

Tell them thank you, but no. Tell them you are just feeling a little claustrophobic and panicky. Politely ask if it would be ok if you just stand here a moment. When they say 'Yes', IMMEDIATELY look at the emergency door handle and then at the floor. Then with just your eyes, look meekly at the emergency door handle.

They will now be staring at you.

Look around and, as though you've just noticed the 3 seats with the inflight articles, politely ask "actually, do you think it would be alright if I just sat here for a little while. I think I just need a little space to breathe".

They will be very happy to get you away from the emergency door handle and VOILA! -- your very own trailer-trash 1st class full bed compartment!

This is the 3rd long-haul flight I've successfully done this on.

Five hours later I return to my crumpled seatmates -- a lovely couple from London. Her shirt is on inside out and backwards, so it seems that things have worked out for everyone.

Body Odour Status: No worse than anyone elses

Sydney Airport

By 2:30am I am sure that I'm not getting any more sleep.

I arrived too late to catch my flight even without the hour wait in the customs line.

I settle in for a night on a row of airport chairs that, despite having hard plastic armrests, are only moderately less comfortable than the Thai Air chairs.

I never want to see another purple chair.

Body Odour Status: Don't ask

My thoughts of having a shower and changing my clothes were dashed immediately as a) the business lounges were all closed and, b) yes, you knew it was coming: the airline lost my luggage.

By this point I've been flying roughly 21 hours, waiting 10 hours and I've still got 3 more hours before I can take a cab over to the Quantas departure terminal to see if I'm actually on a flight to Melbourne. That flight will be about an hour.

I look forward to bathing, wearing a selection from Robin's wardrobe -- which is fabulous -- going for a run, and being with my very fine friend.

In the waiting area, I feel like a younger, poorer version of myself. But I'm living my life in real time and I feel exhausted but very alive and happy.

I look forward to what will come, but am strangely content with what is.

I fear I've gone completely mad.

Some days make more sense than others...

Highlights of yesterday include:

Marwa and Nick take the train to my place for a visit. I pick them up from the station. We grocery shop and bring home yummy food for what should be a lovely afternoon of eating, visiting and maybe taking a walk on the castle grounds.

I tell Marwa and Nick that I have to leave for a few minutes to pick up Faisal from the train station. I tell them that he's a bit antisocial and that he doesn't want to meet my friends, but that it should be ok, even if he just wants to work upstairs while we visit. Faisal is an independent film maker (read: He's interesting, moody, and dirt poor). Having spent my life around artists, his need for solitude is simultaneously annoying and consistent with my experience with artistic types. Live and let live.

I pick up Faisal from the train station. On the way home, I tell him that Marwa and Nick are there. He does not want to meet them. He's not impressed that I didn't mention it earlier. I tell him that I tried to call but his phone was off. He's not feeling social. He does not want to come to the apartment. We sit in the car calmly discussing options. I use my "talking to artists" tone... this is similar to my "talking to 6 year olds" tone, but with more eye contact and longer pauses for them to reflect on how what you are telling them resonates with their soul. I drive him back to town so that he can work from a coffee shop for a couple of hours. I'm more baffled than I expected to be, but can't worry about it. I drive home looking forward to explaining to Nick and Marwa why I'm alone.

I arrive home. Marwa looks at me, looks behind me, looks at me... says "noooooo". I say "oh yes".

We start to prepare lunch and I tell her about Faisal. We can't seem to get the oven working. We turn the knobs, check the cable, flick the lights on and off. Nothing. "Maybe it's the fuse" we agree. Let's check the fusebox in the garage.

We struggle the garage door open. It seems blocked by something. We get halfway to the fusebox. The security alarm in the main house goes off. The cat is in the garage and starts flipping out. Marwa and I are frozen. She says "Run"! We do, laughing, thinking the alarm will stop any minute. It doesn't.

We're back in the apartment. Nick is waiting for us with a "what the hell is going on" look on his face. He's holding a frozen pizza.

I realize that I do not have my landlord's contact information. I put in an emergency weekend call to the rental agency and miraculously get Nicole on the phone. She gives me the landlord's number. I call him. He does not answer. We wait... we turn up the music, and make lunch.

I start to worry about the cat. I phone Nicole back and ask her to phone the police for me (they are a Dutch-language service). She calls back to say that if the police have to come to the house that I will be fined. I make mental note to leave Belgium immediately and never return. She advises me that I have to call the fire department.

I'm feeling very grateful that Faisal is not here.

I call the fire department. Marwa, Nick and I eat lunch. The Fire Department arrives. The fire department is smoking cigarettes. I open the garage door and the traumatized cat goes screaming past us and probably spends the rest of the afternoon chasing large dogs. The fire department cuts the wire on the alarm and then asks for my name. Then my phone number. Then if I am single. I thank the fire department for their help and retreat into my apartment.

I call Faisal -- 3 hours have passed -- to tell him that I am driving Marwa and Nick to the train station and that he can let himself into the apartment.

I drive Marwa and Nick to the train. When I get home Faisal is inside. He takes off his wet pants and hangs them over a chair. I forget that he has been a weirdo. Faisal has very nice legs.

He also has a sore throat. The unspoken implication is that I kept him waiting in the damp day and he's now sick. We drink jasmine tea and I teach him to play "Set". I beat him mercilessly.

We start a conversation that takes hours to slowly wind along a path of tenderness, hilarity, confusion, anger, coldness and ultimately to the certainty that I am not going to see him again.

All things considered equal, I realize I'd rather be alone in my nutty life than spend time with people who make me crazy.

Today I'm going for a Lebanese brunch and then I MUST stop putting off packing for Australia. So far, all I've packed is my plane ticket and my credit card.

Non-Blogging in Belgium

I suspect that the 10-step life-cycle of the average blog goes something like this:

1. Find template you can stand and write first tentative post. Realize that it's ok and you are, in fact, A BLOGGER!
2. Spend 4 or 5 weeks of enjoyable, intesive daily blogging. Have ideas during the day that you earmark for a blog entry... be diligent about your spelling, grammar, sentence structure, and syntax. Fuck around with your template, add links, re-read entries for 'readability'. Edit often.
3. Have 1st thoughts that noone is reading the blog and think that maybe skipping a day is ok as no one will notice
4. Skip a day
5. Skip another day. Wonder if someone you know has found your blog. Try to remember if you told your personal assistant that you're a blogger while having a few drinks after work.
6. Feel like maybe someone might miss the blog, so write a few more entries. Do not be diligent about spelling, or syntax. Do not re-read anything you write.
7. Realize that you were right and that almost noone is reading the blog and that blogging takes a LOT of time, and that's when you
8. HIT THE BLOG WALL: Have the following thoughts:

• Why am you I blogging? Who is this for, because this takes a LOT of time!
• What if someone I know is reading this? I can't write about you-know-what
• Ok, why would I bother blogging if I'm editing myself thinking someone I know is reading this?
• Why not edit myself... I mean, I find my life absolutely fascinating, of course, but probably noone else is interested in the seamy underbelly of my life anyway
• Wonder what happens if Belgium finds out I've been slagging her
• Think: maybe I should write less about me and more about "topical subjects"
• Think: Don't be a putz

9. Write a blog entry about the life cycle of a blog
10. Either continue blogging or shut it down

Zwarte Pete



Ah those wacky Flemish. Such lovely customs.

Look at the happy, happy white man with the big, big hat.

Who is that?

Ah, that is Sinterklaas! Hello Sinterklaas!!

And who is that happy, smiling black boy next to you Sinterklaas? He looks funny. And very happy. He's smiling!

Ahhh, this is Zwarte Pete! Zwarte Pete smile for the people. Smile Zwarte Pete, smile. Look how happy he is.

And Sinterklaas, who is Zwarte Pete? And why Sinterklaas is he so happy?

Why, Zwarte Pete is my little helper. Aren't you Zwarte Pete?...

(Zwarte Pete grins toothily and bobs head up and down enthusiastically)

..Zwarte Pete is happy because Zwarte Pete is a veeery special helper of Sinterklaas, aren't you Zwarte Pete?...

(Zwarte Pete smiles idiotically, revealing a gold-capped tooth. He gets down on one knee singing "Mammy", white-gloved hand shimmering in the air)

...ah Zwarte Pete, you make Sinterklaas very happy (pats him on head like a puppy dog)... yes, Zwarte Pete is very helpful to Sinterklaas because he carries all of Sinterklass' presents that he brings for the little children. The bag is very heavy and Zwarte Pete carries it all over the Netherlands, climbing up and down, and up and down all of the chimneys of the land, delivering toys to all the good little girls and boys, don't you Zwarte Pete?...

(Zwarte Pete looks up from polishing Sinterklaas' black patent leather boot to a shimmery shine, and beaming adoringly)

...but children. You have to be careful (wags finger sternly in the direction of the wide-eyed children), because if you are a baaaad little girl, or a baaaad little boy, Zwarte Pete will beat you with a stick, pop you into Sinterklaas' big, big bag and carry you far, far away to Spain!

**** insert sound of a needle scraaaaaaping across the surface of a vinyl Supertramp 'Breakfast in America' LP... ****

Ok. No. I'm sorry. Does anyone else think this is not the greatest idea?

For those of you not in the know, let's recap. "Zwarte", in Flemish, means "Black". Black *coughslavecough* Pete is a little guy who has been commandered by Sinterklaas to drag his kit all around the Netherlands, climbing in and out of chimneys, and playing the heavy with the bad little kids of Belgium (note: I've met kids in Belgium and, frankly, they are all creepily perfect. A bad kid is probably someone who gets caught singing Adelweiss offkey during "Sound of Music"... I've no idea).

The Flemish insist that Zwarte Pete is not a slave. The fact that Zwarte Pete does not get paid for his services, I suppose makes him a volunteer. Ok, this is moderately believable. Great. He's a volunteer. So why does he have to be black? Welllllll, the Flemish will tell you, Zwarte Pete is not reeeeally black. No. Rather, he's just covered in chimney dust from climbing in and out of all those chimneys he volunteers to climb in and out of. Oh reallllllly? So his clothes are clean and shiny because they are made of some medieval magic fabric that DuPont hasn't yet taken a patent out on???

I've asked several of my Belgian friends if they think it's ok to be promoting such obvious racial stereotypes to CHILDREN. They insist that there is nothing nefarious whatsoever going on. Despite being extremely bright, worldly and critical-thinking people, they seem incapable of making the connection between a beloved centuries-0ld tradition and the problems that are going on today in their country. If you will excuse the expression, they refuse to call a spade a spade.

I'm sorry, but Zwarte Pete is a black slave and an offensive caricature of a black man... I don't care who the hell says he isn't and I don't care how much the Flemish want to overlook this elephant in the tea room so that they can prance around their cobblestoney towns in black-face and still sleep easy in the belief that they are not racists... but he's a Slave.

Honestly, I know that not all Flemish are racist (just 26.9% of them are). But I think it's time they start to connect the dots between the things they are teaching their kids -- actively or passively -- and the intolerance they are experiencing in their society.

As of March this year, Van der Breggen the makers of the yummy marshmellowy treat Negerzoenen ("Nigger's Kiss") has rebranded their cookie as "Buys Kiss". So that's a start. It's a bloody stupid name for a cookie and it will probably fail, but it's definitely a step in the right direction.

When it comes to the legend of Sinterklaas and Zwarte Pete, I'd like to see Belgium follow Van der Breggen's lead and acknowledge that their image of the gardenpath-jockey-come-to-life could possibly be perceived as offensive to some. They could make a few changes to bring this dynamic duo into the 21st century. If, for example, Zwarte Pete really is black only because of the messy volunteer work he does, he could be depicted as a chimney-dust covered ragamuffin of any nationality. Just a thought. It has to start somewhere.

By the way, it may just be me, but being hit with sticks doesn't seem an overly huge price to pay to be hand-carried all the way to Spain. I'm just saying.

eMail...

As I don't have time to write a real entry tonight, I thought I'd share the most interesting email I received this week. It's from my friend Magda whose book I just finished editing:

Sorry, I have to ask you to read through something one more time. This is the foreword, written by Nobel Peace Prize winner Rigoberta Menchu from Guatemala. So, she sent it to me in Spanish, we have then translated it into German, and now it is translated from German to English. Would you just tell me how it reads for you? Thank you so much and yes: only if you have time much love, and a big hug,

Magda

Hmmm.... let's seeee. Well, I was planning to watch Battlestar Gallactica... but I guess I could squeeze in going over some text from your Nobel Peace Prize winner friend.

It's lucky for you guys Trailer Park Boys isn't on tonight.

Breakfast at Tiffany's (if Tiffany was a lousy hostess and didn't know the definition of 'breakfast')

Ok, that's a lame title for this blog. I'm exhausted.
I've spent the past 2 days at a corporate rah-rah session -- which I will write about but need a couple of days to sort through the highlights

I've got to get to bed, but here's a question I need to ask first:

When you invite 40 people for a corporate breakfast at 7:30am with the top executives of the company, do you:

a) serve breakfast (coffee, eggs, toast, bacon, cereal, yogourts, fruit, etc...etc...)
b) serve coffee, desert pastry and stir sticks
c) tell people they are being invited for a pre-breakfast snack of coffee and desert pastry and that there will not be another opportunity to access food until 2pm so they should bring an emergency peanut butter & jelly sandwich with them.
d) either a or c

The correct answer is d.

By 1:30 the speaker couldn't be heard over the sound of the stomachs rumbling.

Later, I asked my Belgian colleagues why we were told that there would be breakfast when there, uh, wasn’t. They looked at me with the “that is a completely stupid question that only an idiot North American would ask”-look I’m getting very used to and assured me that this was breakfast. In fact, it was a very nice breakfast. Fancy. A Sunday breakfast.

I’m too tired to get into this but, for the record: Desert. It’s not breakfast.

"My daughter’s new bike is bi-sexual”

Uhhh, pardon?

“Yes, it is good because my son can also ride it”.

Sometimes I have a little fun with English-as-a-second-language in the workplace. It’s one of the few joys in my otherwise not-so-exciting day, so I typically won’t correct a person who is using the wrong word in a funny way. That way I can chuckle when they keep using it and it keeps me awake in boring meetings. Like when the French consultants were all saying that we need to “formulize” the agreement (heehee) and within a week my Belgian colleagues were all also using this word.

Two weeks ago I sent my boss a picture of an unambiguously unhappy-looking cat and playfully suggested that we use this instead of the :-( -symbol.

My Belgian colleague saw the humour in the idea and innocently started to refer to this image as “The Pussy”. He would say things like “We shouldn’t do it that way because it will make The Pussy unhappy”.

I’d smile to acknowledge the inside joke, but in my head I’d be howling with laughter.

The 1st time he did this, no one in my group flinched, so they are all either oblivious to the alternate significance of this term, or they are doing the same thing I am.

It’s just that now this guy has started to say use this around other people – such as French IBM consultants -- in sentences like “Oh, you better not do that because you’ll make Colleen’s Pussy unhappy”.

Yesterday I overheard him say to someone “I should send you the picture of Colleen’s angry Pussy”.

So now I don’t think it’s so funny. Now this has to stop. But here’s the thing… now I don’t quite know how to tell him to stop because I didn’t correct him all those other times.

But he will stop, won’t he? Today I’m sending him a picture of an angry dog and hope he thinks it’s funnier than the cat.

All this to say that today, when my colleague described his daughter’s Christmas bicycle as “bi-sexual”, I corrected him immediately. I mean, it would have been funny to let him run with the term, but really I don’t need him standing up in our next team meeting saying something like “Colleen did a nice job of massaging the bisexual data” when what he means is that I was in charge of the “gender-nonspecific data”.

What my colleagues do not know is that I have absolutely no right to be smug. See, you lose that privilege when you come from where I come from: