"The" Country for Old Men

It has been a while…. Few days far from the office charged my thinking parts, so I am kicking again.

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A month ago, one evening at home, watching “In Bruges” on HBO quietly and visiting Bruges has been voted as our Xmas plan, by her (The voting process has been similar to the last presidential vote, lost by a narrow (!!) margin)…

A 2.5 hours flight throws you to Brussels from Bucharest and you may reach Bruges by a 1-hour drive mixing with a flow of French, Belgian, Dutch and German speed maniacs. The city, as also mentioned several times during the film, is the best conserved medieval town in Europe. Here “to conserve” has been utilized excessively, the city itself is a historical pickle.

Hotel Prinsenhof, on Prinsenhof Street, is a boutique hotel owned and managed by a local family. The luxury of reception hall and the stylish architecture of the building is turning into a sour smile, when you enter the room and see that the toilet is separate from the bathroom. It seems that during 1800’s Belgians didn’t need to turn on water to envelop undesirable sounds, or they even didn’t need to wash their hands after.

When the nature calls (and after 5 hours of driving, waiting, flying, waiting and driving, it definitely called), you have to enter a small cabinet, as big as a phone boot and once seated, your nose touches the door (I have a proportional and small nose, for your reference). The place might have been handy for Superman, but not comfortable for OrdinaryMan in need.

After unloading biologically processed Romanian food on Belgian soil and unpacking the luggage of 4 days filled personally with enough clothes to open up a store, we took the narrow roads in search for a restaurant.   

A line of 3-4 floor buildings, each looking like a colored and fresh cake, surrounds “The Markt”, the main square. We have chosen one of the places and entered; the greeting has been “Buna Ziua! Bine ati venit! (Good Morrow! Welcome!)”  by Virgil (from Certeze).. We were back at home…Virgil was kind of a supervisor, monitoring the waiters, talking to the guests and serving the bills; perfect job for the man of Balkans. Staying since 1993 in Belgium changed his accent towards French but he was very talkative.

While he was asking about Romania and current events, one of the waiters, a young, tall, blond, athletic type, left the menu on the table and turned to missus,

“Mademoiselle, I have very good muscles; you wanna try?”, smiling kinky.

I was caught unprepared by the approach of this local Adonis, looking desperately to Virgil for a sign of disapproval but he was also shaking his head in agreement and saying “yes, really good muscles, good muscles. Pleasure...”

OK, we arrived to the land of free minds… The final blow came from the missus herself, “Aaaaa, I really want to try, would you like to give it a shot also?”

I just wanted to cry loud, a romantic trip to Flanders turning into an orgy…

The question marks blinking on my face alerted the waiter, he rushed to the next table showing a full bowl of mussels…”YES! Yes!” I shouted, exhaling strongly, I wanted to eat mussels, we all wanted to eat mussels, no?

A quick charge of food helped with blood sugar, relieved and in peace we have decided to visit some points of interest of the city; Chocolate Museum, Fries Museum (yep, they have a museum for French fries), The Burg, Beer Market, Linen Market… The freaky thing about the city is that except tourists’ kids, you do not see much of children, teens or youngsters around; as if the population under 20 years is used as slave labor to produce beer, chocolate and linens  behind hidden doors… All café’s, restaurants, shops are filled with retirement age senior citizens, happily enjoying beer and fries. Even the cue in front of McDonalds stalls looks like a casting line for Benjamin Buttons (Can I have one Cardio Meal Menu please?)…

Too much fries and chocolate makes one hungry, so we entered another food-hole early evening. The place was fully packed and waiters were obviously tired. One of them threw two menu sheets to the table and passed by. Another one came to ask about the drinks but while we were searching the beverage section on the menu, she decided that beer is a fine choice for everyone. Once she left, a third waiter approached the table,

“We, Monsieur?”

You what? Again the missus saves the moment, the waiter was saying “Oui? (Yes?)”, as an indicative remark for us to order and to order fast… I wasn’t ready for this speed test and asked, “What do you recommend?”

“Maybe some poisons for you, Monsieur?”pushing his French accent on every English word.

Should each encounter with a waiter be a challenge here? I might be slow but not suicidal. But still, we are in a foreign country and I do not want to have anyone filing an aggression complaint against me, so I took it as a joke, polite and jolly “Haha, anything that would keep me alive until tomorrow morning?”

“Our portions are standard, but I can get two poisons at once for you”. The celebrity chef Harry Potter should be working in their kitchen.

In order to hide my anger, I looked down to the menu and saw a section of “Poisson”, catching the word “Tuna” I got the point. He was recommending fish (“Poisson” in French) … I had the fish, two fishes on a plate….

The first day in Bruges, marked by offers of sex and death by waiters, ended silently on the comfortable bed of Prinsenhof mansion…

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More to come about Bruges… watch the movie (In Bruges) and you will understand…

Waltz with Bashir

Romania has been the stage of a clash of two evils, where one tricked the other one better and beat to death. The only hope remaining for us is that the lesser of the 2 evils shall give way to a new Devils’ Board, as quickly as possible. Otherwise the ordinary people will feel more heartburn during 2010.

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Recently started hanging out with our champion guys, joining them for Thursday football and beer. The sorrow of current events probably led me to find a shelter among them, feeling back the team spirit and family atmosphere. While being cursed by several former colleagues, the guys still seem to enjoy my companion.

After only two training sessions, I was considered fit for the SuperCup game to be played against French Oysters last Friday. Actually I was only mentally fit to join the team but they were kind enough to show solidarity and insist on my presence.

The day before the big game, on Thursday, we were having another training session. Decided to equip myself as a real player and went to the Nike Store at Plaza Romania (13 installments with CardAvantaj, kidding?). Following a quick analysis of measures and curves, I have moved towards the shop assistant of my choice. She was surprisingly interested in promoting the products, providing minuscule details about each material and model.

Having chosen a black pair of football boots, 2 pairs of socks, black shorts, a T-shirt and a zipper jacket, routed myself to the cashier and realized that I did not have my credit card with me. A big hit on the charisma, after showing off with a dark grey business suit and an air of a club-owner at the store, I had to count coins to pay. The cash in my pocket, RON 120, was only enough to buy a pair of light blue boots, which looked like I have earned them from Kinder Surprise.

When I appeared on the field of Calea Floreasca Hall next evening, wearing my new shiny sugar blue boots, with a revolutionary belly in the black jersey-set of our team, all the kids of my colleagues thought their parents brought Teddy Bear to entertain them during the game and circled me. It was embarrassing…never mind….

First half 3-0 and 2 more goals within the first 5 minutes of second half, the team was ready to bear the Teddy Bear Beckham (Victoria Bear was also watching the game). I was already tired from last night (and from last 36 years); besides, the warning of the referee to take off my glasses hasn’t been encouraging at all…The strong spotlights of the Hall, low battery warning in my brain, the crowd expecting to curse or to chant, with limited optic capacity I possessed, dried the last drops of self-confidence.

I was in the middle of the field, trying to catch a glimpse of the ball by following the tides of moving players. Only my neck was dynamically active, turning my head 180 degrees fast forward; I was looking like a paranoid intruder, looking left and right at 2 seconds intervals, asking “What? Where? Who? Why?”… At such an instance, when I found myself in front of the goal of the counterparts, the ball met my feet. With an inexplicable move that I would never be able to repeat, I passed by their goalkeeper and shoot the ball towards the empty 6 square meters from 1-meter distance… and missed it…asked myself out…

After the game, when the Cup was sitting in the middle of our table between beer bottles, one of the guys mentioned that I have “deviated” excellently bypassing the goalkeeper but hurried at the shot. What? Whatiated? I was just trying to balance myself, not to fall down while running and hoping the ball will pass through the goalkeeper itself. Maybe for some, the visual wave created by the bounces of my belly could be accepted as a deviation… I am not sure if I really wanted to shoot or just aimed at defending my feet from the unidentified flying object but the intercourse between the ball and my feet has been a peaceful event from my point of view.

We won 8-3, as a strong believer of fair play I would rather refrain from mentioning any further comments (especially the ones we made right after the game). Je suis désolée.

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Watch “Waltz with Bashir” or “Dead Fish” , you will not regret.

Romanian Rhapsody

In case we are not facebookies;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGlTzt24Izw

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There is a new bookstore, Anthony Frost, on Calea Victorie nr 45 (former Living Store). The shop is open even on Sunday but the entrepreneurs seem to be either shy to promote or greedy to give up the books. Both options did not suit me, so I have organized a guerilla attack and kidnapped some of the paperbacks (they have a decent comics section also). Drink one less Grande Latte and hydrate your brain with ink at the same expense.

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I am not in the mood to explain the story of the paper ships I destroyed. Really cannot bother myself to tell you in details the day when our newly built head office, state-of-art office space, has been flooded by the first autumn rains of 2002.

When I entered the building, ground floor, Main Branch, was already under siege. The cashiers were brushing water out from their cages with the help of solid aluminum digit-bars of exchange rates' indicator. Branch Manager was explaining to someone the benefits of plasticized banknotes. Few clients, looking like wet ducklings, lost in the ocean, holding invoices, cash, ID's in their hands were staring around confusedly, were trying to choose whether to help the staff or to cry out loud. As an educated economist, I decided to allocate the scarce resources of the bank, thus myself, to more efficient activities and moved on, ignoring the scene. Do I look like the financier descendant of Noah?

A security guard slid one of the wheeled office chairs towards me and offered me a dry lift of 6 meters until the stairs. King Julian..

Climbing to the first floor, I realized that our colleagues did not waste any time; the little lakes throughout the corridor were occupied by a few dozen samples of navigation origami of all sizes. It was too early for me to be able to process in my mind the possibility of a crowd, otherwise dead-meat in the morning, producing so many ships from paper, seating page5 beauty of Libertatea on the board and even coloring flags. All of the ships had names... They were waiting for this, they were ready for this, scary... We have had recruited 300 adults of both genders, from lost childhoods.

The entrance of my office was after two sharp left turns at the corridor. Nervous with the water dropping on my neck through the shirt and with the unnecessary productivity of staff, I took the first turn left fast and slid.. Caution, wet floor!!!! Step-dancing to balance myself, I managed to reach the second turn, with one foot up, the other one almost off the floor. I have seen two colleagues from my department kneeled down, right after the corner, occupying every possible point where I could put one foot, any foot, safely down.

The next second was the one that I regretted not joining the ballet class in the primary school, which could have granted a more artistic landing instead of crashing my bullocks and head simultaneously on the wet floor. I managed to splash big drops of water on the praying devils.

While I was checking my own pulse and ribs, two bastards stood up and left whining, "Bai, If he wouldn't spoil it, mine would have been first", "Huh, yours couldn't even move a bit, kidding?"...

I helped myself up, with a desire to whack them and with a pain to hinder any such aggressiveness. Patting my own back to clean, I have grabbed two flattened sheets of paper; one from my buttock, one from my shoulder. Their ships...Racing Arks... A third colleague, watching the event peacefully until then, stood up and started shouting "Gabi's boat was stuck on his shoulder, so he was ahead, he won!!".. A burst of joy and celebration... I did not exist....

At least they could have treated me with respect, as Godzilla....

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Spank you!

El Classico

Watching El Classico, the Barcelona-Real Madrid game, helps to understand how a simple game of 22 men could be an artistic and sportive show. After this kind of games, Spanish or British derbies, I don’t feel like watching Dinamo Bukkarezt or Gazsaray Izdanbul…

Romania is trying to choose between the lesser of two evils. Next Sunday will be not just an election day, but also a light Armageddon (or Armageddon Zero?), deciding the possible outcomes of 2010… The country is in crisis, jobless rate climbing, pensioners marching the streets; New Year preparations have a rather sad tone despite the glowing sun at the end of November.

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I haven’t been out at a club for a while. During the week spoke to a few pals and agreed to meet at Brothelli on Saturday night.

The club is expected to be packed as stiff as a city tram during early morning hours; I have sent an SMS to D, as our participation ticket to table-lottery. In an hour or so, I received his reply, the table and thus our status at higher social ranks has been granted. We were going to watch down and be looked up.

Days spent home contributed to the diameter of my lower body so I am having difficulties in entering the black jeans I used to wear last year. With few jumps and swift pulls, the encounter has been accomplished- although I might not be able button up. Wearing nothing but the jeans, at a quick look at the dressing room mirror I met the Michelin man posing for Levi’s. Freeing myself from the jeans has taken more effort, I almost fainted.

Grabbed the last pair of jeans bought recently, fitted in and picked a black shirt. The supposedly black shirt lost its color and turned into a shiny grey; after serving as the training base of our cleaning lady for the World Armwrestling Series. Hoping that the dim light of the club will hide the rays of light I will be transmitting, I put it on. As long as I would not sit down, the shirt was still good. However any inclination forward or temptation for sitting may generate a belly vagina between two lower buttons of the shirt, just over the belt buckle…Still fine, slim fit, do not breathe…

Greasing my 1.5cm cut hair with hair gel (to hide the whites), getting into a pair of comfortable white sneakers and I am good to go. (While I was fighting with two pairs of jeans and a shirt, missus has taken shower, dried and reshaped her hair, dressed up, put on make-up, smoked two cigarettes and had a phone conversation with missus Sr.)

Reaching the crowded parking lot we are greeted by customs officers behind an iron bar. One of them leaned towards my window with a disproving gaze but recognized me and asked his mates to let us in; not only me but also my car has VIP treatment, having its own reserved place. Parked the car, walked past a cue of long legged species, guided by the welcoming faces of guards and we are in.

While I am following the waiter to our table I realized that the service personnel had white Nike’s, blue jeans and black shirts; the only difference between me and them was that they seemed comfortable in what they were wearing while I was breathing economically.

Two ladies are waving to me. I would enjoy the moment on my way to the toilets later in the evening but now I wasn’t alone. The girls seem to insist and even move to catch me; one of them shouts, “Could you please bring an ashtray?”

Landed at the table, meeting friends and their friends, ordering drinks. The music is a painful mixture of electronic house, alternative, rock, hip-hop and heavy metal. Adjusting our booty shaking and arm trembling according to the rhythm, occasionally smiling to indicate the joy we are having and the belly exercise I have been applying for the last hour or so create a prostatic pressure; the nature calls.

The walk to the toilets (“Men’s Room” sounds gay) is like swimming against the ocean waves; the crowd extends and dips in harmony but you can never find a straight route. Once seeing the lights of restrooms, you feel like the plane crash survivor regaining his confidence to move on.

With increased testosterone level pumped by the beverage consumption and visibly excessive female flesh, none of the guys aim at high precision targeting but they prefer long distance random shooting; so there is no dry spot around. I make my own contribution to the liquidity discharge and left the warzone, back to the table. On my way, took few orders of beer, cigarettes, was asked for the bill and a cocktail (She didn’t know which cocktail or what kind of alcohol but wanted to pose with one, one with many colors)

Another round of shaking, trembling and while leaving the place at around 3am in the morning, the crowd doesn’t seem to diminish at all.

We had fun, huh?

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I happen to travel a lot around the country and within Bucharest; entering streets and neighborhoods where many local friends wouldn’t deem necessary to go or even couldn’t dare to pass by.

There are several industrial parks randomly left to rot, everywhere. One can easily believe that Romania partially served as filming platform for Mad Max series. After the revolution, probably in a hurry to spell-check, the hub for “steel industry” has been understood as “steal thy industry” by the politicians and those giant work plants has become the scrap yards for Transformers…

And all we are interested in is whether a candidate hit a boy, 5 years ago, or not... Nobody mentions social/economic solutions and plans but a slap... C'mmon... I suppose we all need a good slap to make a step for the required change.

H8 M8

An idiot, who deprived himself of a banking career due to own personal shortcomings, began writing about banks in his blog. From French Banking system to Romanian financial sector nothing stays on his way. His credit card application is rejected? Burn them… His friend’s company couldn’t get a loan? Kill some… He couldn’t pay his leasing and didn’t obtain rescheduling? Spit on those…

Throwing accusations and generating stories, he considers himself the Braveheart, but the only part he comes close to the story of Mark Wallace is the scene when MW taps his own ass…

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A friend of mine moved to Romania and rented an apartment in a building, just on the corner of Stefan Cel Mare Blv intersection with Calea Dorobanti (a.k.a. Perla).

One Thursday afternoon he received a call, urging him to rush to the airport, to catch the evening flight to Istanbul. On his way to the airport he sent me an SMS "O., I had a leakage at home, at my kitchen sink; left the keys to the driver, could you please go and check if there is any further problems?!? Sorry.”

2 hours later the driver came back with the keys, asking whether he should go to check, instead of me. The grin on his face created flashbacks of few dirty bastards having a party in the apartment, finishing all the available booze (and me not being invited); so I decided to pass on his kind offer and go to check myself.

There is a big parking lot in front of the building, facing Stefan Cel Mare Blv. From a distant look, it seemed to be filled with cars parked by a group of anti-symmetry propagandists or by philosophy students trying to disprove the existence of parallel universes (Just for the record, I do refrain from commenting about female parking habits). Actually the small hills of sand and cement, as accessories for a pavement reconstruction, were blocking the space and offering an off-road experience to the residents.

Found a parkable place, landing my shiny black RR Supercharged through a cloud of dust. Waited a bit, until the dust was inhaled by cohabitants and jumped out of the car. Presenting the urban version of Swan Lake in the name of walking not to fall in a municipal-hole, I remembered about the bag I left in the car, the wallet in the bag and the cash & cards in the wallet. I even couldn’t recall locking the car. RR Supercharged is locked by an unusual sound of metal clinching, as a sign of prosperity of the guy holding the key (though you could push the remote button even in your pocket, the ritual of keeping it in the air makes you feel good). As I couldn’t remember any female attention for the last 2 minutes, I couldn’t have had locked the door, so I started rewinding my ballet course back to the car.

When I was approaching the car, from a distance of 15 meters, I realized that there was a guy climbing to the driver seat, holding a mobile phone on his ear and leaning towards the rear seats (where my bag was hiding as obvious as possible). The guy was dressed with Romanian National Football Team’s zipper and training trousers, the white sneakers and white baseball cap completing the car-smuggler uniform. I was, as in all panic situations, trying to process all information and possibilities without any real thinking. He could be a professional in his line of business, carrying a small cutter or knife. Also the taste for clothing indicated sportiveness which I never would trade for my belly.

I had to act fast… Like Bruce Lee…in a costume and tie…how was it? “Fly like a butterfly and bite like a bee”…Not Bruce Lee? Bruce Willis? Aha, Mohammed Ali...

I have held the half open door of the car, grabbed the dangerous criminal from his shoulder and pulled him down, out of the car, on to the sand bed. I caught him unprepared, unexpected and also he hit his head to the door while falling. That was my time for action; before he could take out any possible weapon he might be carrying. Threw consecutive punches on his face, neck and belly. Kicked his feet like a sewing machine.. Yiiieeehaaa, I am the Bruce Willis of Dorobanti (Brus de la Dorobanti?)

I grabbed his throat with a hand and showing a threatening punch with the other hand, heard him screeching. He sounded as if he just had an helium injection so decided to release my hand a bit. There were few spectators, none intending to save me from the criminal mind (his mind, not mine). Suddenly a group of shadows appeared behind me. I had to think that these dickheads never attack alone, but it was too late. My only option was to stand up, to seize the enemy and to run. Fast…

Slowly lifting myself from the patriotic thief, turned back to the group, trying to look cool. There was a guy in his 50’s, dressed in a better stitched costume as compared to mine, a similar aged-also neatly dressed lady holding his arm, and 2 more teenagers. I started shouting about catching the bastard while stealing from my car or even my car itself, attacking me and getting rid of the knife he was waving. The guy approached me and the thiefie, pulled him up. With a disproving look while cleaning his clothes by tapping with hands, he asked me “Why did you need to do this, Sir?”. His tone and words were too civilized for the mood I was in and I started shouting the story again.

Seeing his face, I also realized that the “thief” was an 15-16 years old, clean looking, baby faced, Dorobanti-type-teen guy. He was trembling and crying holding the elder lady’s arm, with his face having few fresh potatoes that I have recently cultivated .

The story turned sad; the older guy, his father, had also a black RR Supercharged, sent the guy to take the shopping bags from the car, the kiddo pushed the remote and by mistake entered my car, the car that I left open, instead of daddy-mobil while checking whether any girls are watching him.

I was sinking to zero from hero and he had a fight story to tell the next day to his friends. I still feel sorry.

And it really did happen…Thanks A., for reminding me to write it.

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Long before the webchats, we had the dealing screens in the Treasury Departments. Trying to act fast, to smack the counterpart immediately, we were using shortcuts, metaphors and amalgams of letters and numbers.

“M” and “8” stood for “Mate (Pal/Friend)"; the other one stands for you, my blogger-journalist-financial&social expert friend. Try to be someone but not everyone.

Obo

Yesterday I heard from an old friend working at CitiGroup that Anan Dickshit is still with Citi but now riding bigger horses.. Glad for him, and for the crowds who might be meeting him, letting him introduce himself...

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From the "to-do"list, I didn't manage even to start any of the items yet but good intentions prevail

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Journal of the Broken Heart

20.20pm
I showed her clearly who is the boss around and said honestly my opinion about the way she does things. The fact that she couldn't understand and accept the reality is another proof of her inability to self-improve (I have told this also, honesty is the key in a relationship)

20.25pm
I should have taken a photo of her face when I was talking, to show to the guys tomorrow. Her eyes were blocked as if her brain was run by Windows Vista. I am done with her and she is sooooo done with any sign of further humanly life.

20.30pm
Driving home, checking the mobile if she has send any message of apology. She must be crying in agony with tears and couldn't sum herself up for texting.

20.40pm
Still no calls or messages. I check her Facebook page on my mobile, no status update (hope she didn't commit suicide)

20.45pm
I check her Facebook page again at home and saw the wall-messages from her friends, the sluts seem to be going out tonight. They were always a bad example for her any case.

20.57pm
I am afraid she will do something stupid for consolation and end up as the breakfast of a bastard.

21.00pm
She still didn't call for a decent apology. I call her to make sure that her phone is functional and she is alive. She answered but the wind blowing at the background makes it impossible to communicate. What? Hairdryer??? She is really going out...Bitch..

21.10pm
She should have called back already. Probably now at the make-up stage... Make up... we make it up......no?

21.25pm
I am ringing her again, to tell her that I do not understand how she could be ready that quickly to hit the night, while she has just been dumped... Dumped by me.
She answered, quite relaxed, asked why I am calling her every five minutes now, when I didn't even answer her calls during the day. Said that she has to find her boots and hang off. Boots? High Heels?

21.32pm
She was right, I didn't show her the attention she deserved lately. And now a two-days bearded Hulk will get her into his bed with a quick smart talk...

21.47pm
I should have been more attentive and I shouldn't have forgotten the reasons for which I was attracted to her. I loved her for who she was and who she is, why to change?

21.53pm
I want to call her and ask for an apology for the rude talk, it wasn't honesty but aggressiveness. She didn't deserve those groundless accusations.

22.00pm
and I love her. But tonight I am going to lose her, because of my stupid macho behavior. Decided to catch her and her lovely friends at the bar, started dressing up quickly. Huh, she likes that shirt.

22.15pm
The door bell rings. I do not have time for a neighbor or dropping by friend. Looking for the jeans she liked me to wear.

22.18pm
The doorbell is still ringing and I need to open the door to let myself out; so the encounter with the alien is inevitable.

22.19pm
Opened the door, forcing myself, aiming to rush and but met her. She passed me by, entering the living room she asked where I am heading to, as I was dressed with my Fratelli uniform. Speaking with a tone and a speed stopping me to interfere, mentioned that she is sorry that she didn't listen to what I said at the cafe, she was thinking about the girls going out tonight and she needed a reasonable excuse not to join but to spend the evening with me, she didn't want to piss me off but I shouldn't have left the table in such a girlish manner. She was ready to listen now carefully.
Unfcknbelievable....
I started "Look, you are suffocating me, tonight we were supposed to spend with our friends...."

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Do not forget, Sunday we will be going to vote!!! no other plans!!!

0-800

Thanks to the new tech, we do everything by phone or Internet; talking, selling, shopping, getting aroused, learning and even sometimes listening to someone or something.

The door-to-door salesmen of 80’s become the young agents of call centers. Few kids with headsets know what we need, when we need and they even know our mother’s maiden name.

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A very hectic day in the office; 189 e-mails boldly waiting to be read; 2 mobiles and the office phone competing to ring; couple of meetings overlapping; few colleagues back from holidays and frequenting my office in need of reminding me about their existence; an angry client threatening to file complaints to Consumer Protection, parliament, authorities and even to send a letter to Mecca.

When I hang off the last phone, two more colleagues attempted to enter , each holding a white page but I stop them at the doorstep with a hand, like a talented traffic police, showing the ringing phone with the other hand. I am decided to have a looooong conversation with whoever is calling. The line of numbers starting with double zeros indicates an international call.

“Hello, is this Mister Teppich?” I am asked, by a velvet voice of a young girl. Under normal circumstances I would get angry and correct the spelling of my surname loud but now I need this conversation, to hide behind. Also her voice is so soft, I am ready to be her “carpet” (though I am sure she doesn’t mean or speak anything in German).

“Yeah, but I recently rebranded myself as Tetik, T-E-T-I-K, Darling!” I can’t stop myself.

“Aaash, Mr. Tea Tick, Sorry for my mistake, but my records indicates as Teppich”. I couldn’t dare to challenge your records and please you do not challenge my patience.

“Mr. Tea Tick, I am sixteen and I have an offer that you cannot refuse”.

Honey, I'm not sure whether to be honored that my reputation is beyond borders but you are 2 years below the legal age to offer me what I cannot refuse. Still I would rather check your local legislation and might ask for a photo before my final answer.

“Sorry?” I said, “What is your name, M’am?”

“I am sixteen, Mr. Tea Tick”

“Sure, I got it and I am 36. But, your name please? Where are you calling from?” I just wanted to add if her mother knows the international call she makes.

“No, Mr. Tea Tick, my name is S-I-S-T-I-N-E, Sistine; and I am calling you from Chamberlain & Wyman International ”

Upppsss, I did it again.

“So, Mr. Tea Tick, you are the Head of Treasury And Financial Institutions in your company?” Nope, I am the liver of retail banking and it is not my company, I just work here.

“No, Mademoiselle, I used to be… Until a few years ago”, regretting the days when I was bothered only by the beeps of dealing screens in trading room. No human touch, just graphs and numbers…

“Ooo, excuse me Mr. Tea Tick, I was referred to you by Mr. D. We have an exclusive event in September in Prague, for a limited number of 20 bankers, as regard to the effects of Global Warming on Commodity Prices and US dollar indexes. We have an unexpected availability only for one more attendant and we thought you would be the right person”

Yes, with 6 faces impatiently staring at me through the glass office walls, I am the right person for you to talk now, keep on explaining. And of course when remembering about Global Warming and Commodities, I am the 21^st person coming to anyone’s mind.

Though, I am wondering the mimics I could activate on my boss’s face, by bringing a 5,000 EUR protocol expense request, only for the participation fee. I would at least feel a local warming, if not a global one.

I let her talk, about program, subjects, participants, sponsors, prices until everyone got pissed off and left my visibility. Once my horizon has been cleared, I cut her sales pitch “Thanks Honey, for all the information provided. When exactly would be the event? Which dates?”

“6-9 September, Mr. Tea Tick”

“Ahhh, now I am really sorry but exactly on those dates, I will be joining Al Gore at a Panda Hunt in Mexico. Unfortunately I am in a position to refuse your kind invitation”

When I am hanging off, I hear her asking about references to be called.

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I joined CitiBank Bourse Game in 1996 in Istanbul and my deskmate was a very kind & polite Indian, named Anan Dikshit. He was running the Call Center located in India, covering East Europe. The poor guy couldn't introduce himself to anyone during the courses without an explosion of laughter.

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Spending more time on the phone with friends, apologizing for not being able to call earlier instead of straightforward chatting with them. Once I finish the unread e-mails, I will call a friend.