The Kyrgyz Massage and Other Stories

Where’s the Lake?

2009-12-27T12:03:00.001+02:00

Sometime in June or July 2002, I was invited to a conference hosted by the European Training Foundation at a hotel on Lake Issy Kul, Kyrgyzstan. My colleague Janna and I were to present the results of a European Training Foundation project we had been doing for the past two years. We had been working with a group of business schools in Ukraine and Central Asia, helping them develop means of diagnosing corporate training needs more accurately, and improving their in-company training programmes. Of course, I was quite happy to attend: the summer before, I’d been invited to spend a weekend at Issy Kul, but wasn’t able due to work.

The original plan was to leave Almaty (in Kazakhstan) around 15:00. Unfortunately, I had to get a visa at the Kyrgyz embassy, and this was delayed because of previous work, so everything took a little while longer than forecast. We finally left the Embassy around 17:00, and started driving south. I was in a quality Kazakh taxi-I think it was a Lada-and I was in a hurry.

To get to Kyrgyzstan from Almaty you drive south through miles of steppe cut by isolated, shallow valleys. The road is isolated, except for a few settlements huddled together out of the wind. If you can somehow forget the taxi and the odd telephone line cutting the horizon, it’s difficult to tell what year-or century-it is. In many spots, you spot cemeteries, stuck in the middle of nowhere, rags streaming in the biting wind, the only thing moving on the empty landscape.

Not to my particular surprise, the taxi driver didn’t have a map, had never been to the lake before, didn’t know the particular hotel where the conference was taking place. This somehow should have alerted me that the situation was, as my friend Max would say “highly sub-optimal”. But I figured he could handle the situation.

By about 20:00 we had passed the Kyrgyz border without incident, and had reached the outskirts of Bishkek. At that point, I knew we had to turn left, and start looking for the lake.

The driver stopped, got out, and asked some Kyrgyz ladies selling onions by the side of the road: “Where’s the Lake?” With my limited Russian, I understood that the lake was about 1 hour “that way” (along the road). So, we got back in the taxi, and kept driving.

By this time, darkness was falling, and I started to get worried. Not that we would fall into the lake, but if we took the south road rather than the north road (where the hotel was located), we’d be driving for several days the long way around, and miss the conference. So, I really wanted to get to that turn before we missed it in the dark.

About fifty minutes later, we stopped again at the side of the road. “Where’s the Lake?” the driver asked. “That way!” (along the road). “How far?” “About an hour!” So off we went again.

A bit later, it was 22:00, and I insisted we stop for dinner. We found one of those seedy sashlik stands along the road where you’re not sure if you’re eating chicken or roadkill, and had a quick dinner. The Lada sat right next to us, and it was at this moment that I realised the driver looked just like my crazy grand-uncle Niko. This revelation did not fill me with joy: Niko was a kamikaze driver, the terror of central Greece. His ancient red Lada had survived countless accidents, and he was very proud of it.

By that time, it was dark, really dark. The kind of darkness you get in Central Asia when you are barrelling down the road, lit only by the headlights of an old red Lada, with no other lights in sight. We drove and drove. Every 15 or 20 minutes, or whenever we saw lights, the driver would stop, get out, and ask “Where’s the Lake?” And each time, the answer was the same: “That way – one hour.”

Sometime around 01:00 we pulled up to a big DAI checkpoint. The former Soviet Union was riddled with these. Originally designed to control transport authorisations, the modern version of the DAI is essentially a big private toll booth benefiting the cops in charge of the shift. In other words, it’s a baksheesh toll booth: if you want to pass, you have to pay.

It was freezing. An icy wind was blowing down the steppe. There were cars parked here and there. The traffic barrier was down. My driver disappeared into the police station and stayed there. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, then twenty.

At some point, the driver came out, practically in tears. “They want 6 dollars!” he cried in anguish. I handed him a tenner and told him to hand over the bribe so we could get the fuck out of there. He disappeared back into the DAI.

Another ten minutes passed, then fifteen minutes. I was starting to lose my temper.

Suddenly two Kyrgyz military police in full camouflage and AK 47s appeared at my passenger-side window. One of them opened the rear door. I stepped out of the car: “What’s going on?” I asked, in Russian. He muttered something I didn’t understand back to me. I stood with him next to the open rear door.

Then my driver appeared, accompanied by a short, squat smiling Kyrgyz man with many gold teeth and a shiny chrome suit. “Hello my friend!” he said, putting out his hand. He got into the back of the car, and didn’t say a word more. I looked at the driver, trying to decipher this latest development. He shrugged, and got in the car too.

So, off we drove. It was 01:45, and we were driving through the Stygian darkness, looking for the Lake, with a strange man in the back seat. He and the driver started talking. Luckily, it turned out he knew where the lake was, and better than this, he knew where the hotel was. Then he started speaking English!

“My name is …… I am the environmental minister of Lake Issy Kul region. I represent Kyrgyzstan at the RAMSAR convention. Are you familiar with RAMSAR?”

At this point, I should have felt relieved. In fact, I was ready to explode. It was nearly 02:00 in the morning, we were nowhere near the damned hotel, and my ear was being yakked off by a cheerful Kyrgyz government official who had just scared the living daylights out of me.

Luckily, I was able to respond politely, and soon learned everything I wanted to learn about Lake Issy Kul’s unique geology and ecology.

About 02:45, we dropped him off just outside some dark city. He assured us there was a city there: it was just that there were no lights. We were on the northern shore of Issy Kul. The driver asked him once more: “Where’s the Lake?” “That way!” he pointed into the darkness. “How far?” “One hour!”

Of course. I was wondering if this hotel actually existed, or if was a figment of a collective national imagination, like Xanadu.

About 20 minutes later, without any fanfare, we passed the entry of the hotel. “Stop!” I shouted. We backed up, turned right, and entered the hotel driveway. Ahead of us was another checkpoint. The barrier was down; another policeman in full camouflage and an AK lolled against the guardhouse.

The driver rolled down his window, and in Russian asked to pass. The guard answered something to the negative. The driver turned to me with a worried look in his eyes, and said “The Hotel is closed now, we cannot enter.”

At this point, I lost it entirely. I leaned across the driver’s side, stuck my head out the window, and started right at the guard: “You open that fucking gate right now and let us in!” I growled in English.

He didn’t need an interpreter. “Yes sir!” he saluted, and opened the gate.

The red Lada rolled into the silent hotel grounds. We drove for about 2 minutes through some kind of park, and pulled up to a vast, dark bulk. The hotel was huge. At least 10 stories high; probably 500 meters long, oriented east-west along the northern shore of the lake. The only problem was—there was no entrance. There was one light on in the darkness: it said “Nightclub.” You know—the seedy kind of nightclub where you do a special kind of dancing, paid by the hour.

“OK,” I told the driver, “turn right here and let’s drive around till we find the reception.” So we drove. And drove. And drove. The dinky little asphalt road ended, and I realised we were driving on the hotel lawn. It was 03:20 or so at that point: there was not a single light on in the entire building. We drove around the front, so that we were facing the lakefront, and kept driving, until we made a 360 degree turn around this black edifice.

Shit, I was thinking. What if the hotel really was closed? What if we came to the wrong hotel?

We pulled up to the nightclub again. The driver got out to take a look. He disappeared downstairs, came up again, and pointed to a black shadow next to the nightclub entrance. “That’s the reception!”

I looked at him in disbelief. There wasn’t a single light on: It was absolutely dark. I pulled out my Motorola, flipped the clamshell cover open, and walked into the hotel, navigating by the dim light of the phone.

There wasn’t the least sign of human habitation. Just a vast black space, stairs zig-zagging here and there, sinister post-Soviet potted plants lurking in corners. Finally, I called Janna, my colleague, who had made it earlier. “Janna, we’re here, but can’t see a damned thing!” Janna said she would call the reception and wake someone up.

The driver and I waited in the darkness for about 10 minutes. Up ahead, a light appeared, very faint and pale. It gradually grew closer and closer. Finally, a babushka appeared holding the light, dressed in her finest bathrobe and slippers and hair curlers, and said abruptly in Russian “Give me your passport!”

It was time to check in. I got my room key, got lost on my way to the room, finally found it open, and collapsed on the bed. Before doing so, I made sure the driver got a room as well: he was ready to drive back to Almaty immediately, but I didn’t want to inflict this on him.

It was 03:50. I had found the Lake. I had found the hotel. I had found my room. Three hours later the alarm rang, and I was ready to talk about human resources management in Central Asia.

Reaching Igoumenitsa

2009-12-22T12:23:00.001+02:00

01:00 Tuesday morning--
outside three lights appear
in the darkness
where before were only black
hints of land, no stars
the utter dark of Ionian winter.

I blink at the lights:
but they are real, not reflection.
We pull silently into land
the ferry plying its massive course
amid the calm waters of the headlands
where I have been before.

Ahead the harbour lights appear:
yellow sodium, shadows and concrete waste.
Six cars huddle, some trucks,
as though seeking warmth in the winter night.

The ferry turns,
Spinning on its own length silently, inexorably;
anchors fall in muffled roar,
engines reverse,
in a moment the rear doors will open
as we reach Igoumenitsa

From Paradise to the Crusades in Geraka

2009-12-20T22:57:00.002+02:00

I took the garbage out to put it in the bin around 14:00 this afternoon. The sun was shining, there was this marvelous quiet, and the temperature was about 20 degrees.

Along the way, I fell in with a short man in a black wool suit who was doing the same thing. “Kalimera!” I said, catching his eye. “Kalimera,” he responded.

We dumped our bags, and started walking back up the hill. Along the way, he turned to me and asked “Aren’t we in Paradise?” (Δεν είμαστε στον Παράδεισο?”).

“Actually,” I responded, “this is Geraka.”

He stopped, waving his arms a bit at the sky. “No, I mean to say, look around, isn’t this Paradise?”

“Yes, from this viewpoint, we are. If only there were fewer thieves and criminals.”

“I agree,” he responded, "these politicians are really too much." And so we got to talking. A little while later, he asked me “Why don’t you join the Association of the Cross?” (Γιατί δεν γίνεσαι μέλος του Συλλόγου του Σταυρού?”)

I reflected how joining a Crusade would look on my CV, and responded “Well, actually, I do go to Church.”

“No,” he said, “not THAT cross. This Stavros – you know, the neighbourhood of Stavros? If you don’t start screaming a bit, nothing gets done in this country.”

Well, I took his leaflet for the “Association of the Cross” (which turned out to be a neighbourhood association), shook his hand, and went back to the comfort of home. From Paradise to the Crusades in the two minutes it took to empty the garbage bags one sunny afternoon in Geraka. And here I thought work was interesting.

Good night Dnepropetrovsk!

2009-11-05T23:22:00.000+02:00

My last night in Dnepropetrovsk. Our business dinner ended unexpectedly early, and I find myself in the hotel restaurant, reflecting on how things change-and how things remain the same.

The first time I visited Dnepropetrovsk was almost exactly ten years ago, at the end of November 1999, for a company named Ista Battery. Dnepropetrovsk was a different city then: freezing, grim, caught in the throes of the economic collapse following the Russian ruble devaluation. On Karl Marx Avenue, few stores had anything to sell. At the vast, crumbling Hotel Dnepropetrovsk, a 19-storey Stalinist hulk on the Dnieper river, there was no hot water on the upper floors, and the floor monitors cast a jaundiced eye on all our comings and goings. There were perhaps three restaurants worthy of the name in the entire city of over 1 million, and very few people had money to eat in them.

The snow came early that year, and the temperatures quickly reached freezing. A few Ladas and Zhigulis sputtered and coughed their way down the streets; the world was a perpetual state of grey. Crumbling factories, crumbling apartments, crumbling hopes.

Fast forward to November 2009, and it’s a different place. Karl Marx Avenue is lined with expensive stores: Escada, Ermenegildo Zegna, Levis. Good restaurants are on every block: Nobu, Pastoral, Paris, Charly, Kadri. Wifi connections are everywhere. New shopping centres and office blocks have been built, their marble and granite brightening the crumbling Soviet-era apartments. People are better-dressed, better-fed, optimistic.

Despite the current crisis, there is a feeling of potential in the air. Things are tough, but they will get better, and eventually things will normalise to the point where Ukraine is indistinguishable from other European countries, at least for the young. Indeed, for most of them, this point has already been reached.

My client this time around is another manufacturer. In just 8 years, they have built a plant which is among the largest and most modern of its kind in the world. All-new Western machinery. A sparkling factory floor. Top quality products. A capacity for 7 million units per year. To most Ukrainians, manufacturing comes naturally, instinctively. Their thinking is Cartesian and linear. Their ability to plan and improve a manufacturing process is unlimited by tradition or custom.

Nearly every Ukrainian oligarch I meet begins our meeting with the line: “In the next five years, we will be one of the top 10 companies in Europe.” Many of them have actually achieved this. Some of them grow complacent: they drive around in black Porsche Cayennes and spend their money on extravagance. But most of them buckle down. Seven million batteries is just a start: the next step will be another plant for industrial batteries. Then a lead recycling facility. Then renewable energy solutions. There is no limit to the progression. The only limits are of time, capital and human resources.

Sitting in this hotel restaurant, I feel rather humble. In Greece, my country, we are still arguing about the basics. Should university education be public or private? Should the government re-nationalise ports and telecoms? Should an investor dare to build a soccer stadium and mall in the wasteland of Votanikos? Should a 5,000-room hotel complex be licensed on a barren peninsula in Crete?

Looking at it from the perspective of this city, we are frivolous and spoiled. We complain about forest fires, yet every day drivers toss their cigarette butts from their cars. We expect other countries to admire our history, but seem to have forgotten that our historical achievements required sacrifice and self-discipline to achieve them. The notion of arête, of the search for excellence, has largely been forgotten. Instead, we spiral into mediocrity, into the drone of morning TV and failed expectations, empty words in a hollow echo chamber.

This city started only a short time ago from nothing. Generations of Soviet planning had turned Dnepropetrovsk into a vast zone of grey, crumbling concrete. People were disciplined to follow orders. The concept of market cost or market price had not meaning. Just 20 years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, this city has made tremendous progress. Immeasurable, if compared with our western standard of living.

And a small group of business entrepreneurs built one of the most modern factories in the world from scratch, in 8 years, from nothing, and show no signs of slowing down. I have two more meetings tomorrow morning, then sprint for the airport and the long flight home. I return to Greece inspired, with different expectations, and a higher standard of achievement than I had when I left just a week ago. Of all the places to find inspiration, I found it in this industrial city on the banks of the Dnieper River, 10 years after I first arrived.

Good night Dnepropetrovsk!

Unacceptable!

2009-10-17T20:18:00.002+03:00

Lunch was finished, and the conference on Financing of Vocational Education and Training I was attending at CEDEFOP, the European Centre for Development of Vocational Training, was over. I managed to complete the conference without putting my foot in my mouth (or at least not too many times) and I had half an hour before the bus was due to depart for the hotel. So I decided to go back into the main conference room at CEDEFOP’s Thessaloniki headquarters, which was now deserted, and catch up on email.

This created a certain administrative furor. The two worthy ladies cleaning the room stopped in momentary paralysis, uncertain of how to continue. It was only after reassuring one of the conference organisers that yes, of course they could continue cleaning, and no, they weren’t bothering me, that I was allowed to finally get on with my email.

The uneasy silence which had settled did not last long. A steady murmuring started, punctuated by sibilant bursts of outrage. The two ladies were circling around the conference tables, thrashing at them with cleaning rags with barely contained rage.

I gradually understood, from their conversation, that one of their administrators, a Bulgarian, had the unsurpassed arrogance to somehow criticize their work just a while ago.

“Unacceptable,” demanded one of them. “What happened today was UNACCEPTABLE.” Her capable hands smashed the table as though it was the Bulgarian’s face she was pummelling.

“Something is going on,” the other one insisted. “You can see this, something is going on!”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the first one replied. “In all the years I’ve worked here, noone has ever said anything to me!”

I tried to tune out their indignation. I had been out until 01:00 last night at the conference dinner, discussing vocational education and training and trying to avoid a faux pas while straining to hear the dinner conversation. It’s quite demanding: the dinner started with a discussion of the complicated Belgian parliamentary system and a comparative review of European tax and social security contributions, and then moved on to even more esoteric issues. By the end of it, I realised that I could barely keep my eyelids propped open, and that I should really wake up early to slap together a presentation on the committee discussion I had participated in.

And this is where I suffered my latest existentialist shock. Leaving the restaurant in the Ladadika, I walked out in the rainy, promise-filled evening of Thessaloniki and discovered…that the streets were FULL of beautiful young people. They were streaming in all directions, in their mini-skirts and their trench coats and jeans and Armani/Zara clubwear, laughing, talking, smoking, making that cheerful din of the young.

For a moment, I wondered if perhaps a demonstration was about to start. But then it hit me: they were all going out! Every fashionable bar along the waterfront, between the port and my hotel, the Makedonia Palace, was packed. Packed! Full to capacity, people out on the pavement, smoking, writhing absently to music, talking, smoking.

I realised then that I’ve really fallen off life’s bandwagon. Here I am worrying about my presentation and how to finance VET systems and the projects I have to deal with next week, and all around me thousands of beautiful young people are talking the night away, clearly not worried about working or studying or doing anything else the next morning. Most of them were still arriving for the evening’s entertainment. Am I really this old?

“UNACCEPTABLE!” My thoughts were brought back to the conference room with a shock. “WHAT SHE SAID – UNACCEPTABLE!” The anger of the cleaning ladies had bubbled over. A crisis point was reached.

For a brief, hysterical moment, I thought of singing out that hideous old Karras song: Ασ’την να λέει, άσ’την να λέει, εκείνη μόνο ξέρει, και μέσα της θα κλαίει, άσ’την να λέει.... (I won’t bother translating it…it's hopeless).

In my imagination, Karras himself would rise in a white sequined suit from the front of the conference room, crowds of nubile VET students would shimmy to the beat, and the two cleaning ladies would be vindicated in a sweeping Bollywood moment, dancing through the marble halls of CEDEFOP.

But as with the evening before, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour. Better to keep my head down, answer my emails, and avoid the wrath of the cleaning ladies—or perhaps the Bulgarian. Tace is Latin for candle. They made their pinched, offended way out of the conference room, intent on the battle. And I went back to my emails.

Οι αρχαίοι ακόμη δουλέυουν για μας

2008-09-27T17:14:00.000+03:00

I usually fly to work, and as a result spend a lot of time listening to taxi drivers, coming or going to an airport: Athens, Larnaka, Donetsk, Moscow, Paris … This isn’t something I’m particularly proud of, but it does make for some interesting commentary. Last night, returning from Athens International Airport after midnight and a really tough trip, the driver said something that stuck in my mind.

We were talking about what had changed in the week since I left Athens, and this of course branched into a philosophical discussion of Greece, its politicians and its problems. He said something which I can’t forget:

Οι αρχαίοι ακόμη δουλέυουν για μας. “The ancients are still working for us.”

He meant all those great figures that made Greece: Themistocles, Pericles, Leonidas, Phidias, Callikrates, Herodotus, Homer. Why else does the story of Leonidas’ stand at Thermopylae still resonate today? Why do millions visit the Parthenon and Delphi every year? Why do doctors take the Hippocratic Oath? Why do we still read Socrates or run the marathon race?

Unfortunately, much of what we have created since then pales in significance, meaning and endurance. I very much doubt that any modern TV series or political speech will last as long as the words of Demosthenes, Sophocles or Pericles. Our natural landscape is desolated by fire and drought when it is not blighted by garbage and ill-planned urbanisation. Our politicians are figures of inspiration only for those craven few who seek public sector employment or government contracts, and neither their fame nor their utility last.

My own philosophy is that we should do as much as we can to leave this place a better one than we found it. We all have personal responsibility for how we live: how we dispose of our garbage, how we drive, how we communicate, what we consume, and how we educate our children.

I also believe that as inheritors of this civilisation, we should be working twice as hard, even more, to honour all those who have gotten us to this point. For me this is above all a profoundly personal commitment. It’s why I choose to live and work here, though all my work is based outside Greece, and could easily be run from an offshore location at much lower cost. It’s also why I try to live my life in line with a few invariable principles of honesty, objectivity, self-reflection and consideration for others.

To sit and wait in the hope that this crumbling edifice of the public sector will actually do anything is futile. Our institutions, political customs, and laws are anachronistic, and do more to ruin public life than help it to flourish. If we want to change anything, we need to start with how we live our own lives, and find those few areas where collective action by well-informed citizens and friends of Greece can lead to a real change.

Back from Rubezhnoye

2008-09-27T12:06:00.002+03:00

I returned last last night after a gruelling 13-hour trip back from the corrugated packaging factory in Rubezhnoye, Ukraine where I was working all week. It’s a client we’ve worked with since 2002, and this time my colleague and I were reviewing the implementation of a EUR 151 million business plan, and helping out with a large procurement contract.

Rubezhnoye is a small industrial town located about 150 km NE of Donetsk, near the Ukrainian-Russian border in Lugansk Oblast. It’s not like other cities in Ukraine, where you can find WiFi, western cafes and restaurants, and all the comforts of home. There is no internet, except for a highly overloaded satellite uplink which serves the 50-odd managers in the plant. Accessing any kind of news is impossible, and walking down to the newsstand to buy the Financial Time or Herald Tribune is an option which simply doesn’t exist.

So, after a week without news, I returned to Athens to find – NOTHING HAD CHANGED! Republicans still squabbling with Democrats about the $ 700 billion credit bailout, Obama still sniping away at McCain, who was sniping back: the only news was about whether they would be sniping at each other from the same room, since there was some doubt as to whether the first debate would take place. How anyone can take the two US Presidential candidates seriously on the financial crisis when they’ve taken massive campaign contributions from investment banks and Fannie Mae is beyond me.

In Greece, the Vatopedi scandal, involving an illegal land claim by the Vatopedi Monastery, followed by an even more illegal land swap, was still smouldering. Unfortunately, it looked as though ultimately no one was responsible. I have the feeling that the media in this country are already looking for the next big issue.

In Ukraine, there was some news, but again nothing really new. The Orange coalition had collapsed the week before. My estimate is that Iulia Timoshenko and Viktor Yanukovich will form a caretaker government until sometime next May or September, when conditions will be ripe for an election. Everyone party is scurrying around to raise cash to finance this election. The Gazprom gas price hike looms over everyone, yet nobody knows exactly what will happen – except that most likely, some Ukrainian politicians (and Gazprom) will make money, and Ukrainian citizens and companies will pay for it.

In short, it’s business as usual. Crooked government in the US, Greece and Ukraine. Dishonest or inept politicians across the political spectrum. The intersection of money-rich campaign donors (and even monasteries!) bribing politicians, so they in turn can make yet more money. A depressing state of affairs.

Yet in Rubezhnoye, the real economy continues at speed. A new packaging plant and paper machine are being built that will increase output, creating new jobs and enabling Ukraine to produce new packaging materials, supporting the movement of goods and economic growth. My client pays its taxes, pays its workers competitive salaries, and contributes to the environment: over 80% of packaging material is wastepaper, gathered from recycling points across Ukraine and Russia. Starbucks and Pizza Hut and WiFi may be missing, but life goes on without them, and pretty well, I would say. If only someone could do something about these politicians….

Europe descends into Summer Travel Hell

2008-07-26T09:57:00.003+03:00

The summer travel lunacy season has descended on Europe again. Flying out of Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris is an exercise in pure masochism. On July 10th, I was on the 06:40 Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt: the terminal was packed at 05:00 in the morning. There were at least 750 people in the Lufthansa Star Alliance check-in counter: desperate Indian tourists, clueless American couples, perky Taiwanese sports groups, all shuffling forward at a bovine pace, wondering what strange urge had possessed them to visit France.

Today, I got to CDG at 06:00 for the Czech Airways flight to Prague. Same story: a line of at least 150 people at the dedicated CSA check-in at Terminal 2D, inching forward at a snail’s pace, laden with suitcases and boxes and baggage carts and howling babies of every possible description. CSA had 4 check-in teams handling 150 passengers, but somehow the average processing time per check-in group was about 10 minutes. It was a really slow line – glacial.

In both cases, I took one look, veered off, and used the automated check-in boarding terminals. It was easy: I printed the boarding card, shouldered the baggage I had originally been planning to check in, and walked to security control. Getting to the “baggage drop-off” point was impossible: the same line that led to normal check in was used for the baggage drop off. I didn’t bother asking what the point of this system was: existentially it would have been too challenging.

Security was cursory: this morning they let me through at Paris with my Williams shaving foam and skin repair in my overnight bag. At Prague, they caught them and confiscated them both. What is happening at CDG?

But the fun wasn’t over. The CSA flight boarded at gate D55. I was first through the line, walked along the gate, and discovered that instead of boarding the perfectly good Air France Boeing tucked snugly against the bridge just a few meters in front, I had to descend some stairs and wait in a bus. Fine. The bus eventually filled up, and we were driven to gate F34. There, the bus driver got out and disappeared up another flight of stairs. In the meantime, a stream of people started walking down that same flight of stairs, boarding a bus to take them somewhere else.

While this pleasant scene was taking place, we sat on our bus. Ten minutes passed, then another ten, and after 30 minutes, the driver returned and announced we could board in 5 minutes. What had happened? Another flight used gate F34 to descend some stairs and be transferred – by bus – to another plane. Meanwhile we were waiting for them to go down the stairs, so we could go up the stairs, and board the plane parked at F34. It would be too much to have two planes of passengers using the same set of stairs, one going up and one going down, at the same time. In fact, it would have been too much even to use the damned bridge for the reason it was intended: boarding the plane stationed at it. We did enjoy using the stairs, though.

We finally got everyone on board – the other busses pulled up just as we got out of our bus, having been held up by a lack of security screeners – and took off 45 minutes late. I can just imagine what held up those damned screeners: Zut allors, ou est la shaving foam Williams? Where’s that dangerous Williams shaving foam that passed through here an hour ago?

This is a classic lean thinking problem: airports have a designed capacity based on resource constraints, primarily cost of capital expenditure and operating costs. Yet the tourist season occurs only 3 months per year. France is not only the country with the highest number of incoming tourists in Europe (over 66 million), but a country of 60 million where the summer vacances are an important part of life. Result in July? Pure chaos. Packed terminals, missed flights, lost luggage, delays, and probable security and maintenance strains.

My advice to anyone flying out of Paris in the three summer months is: avoid it, if at all possible, except in early June. Paris is great in the spring, and fantastic in the fall: visit it then. If you have to fly in or out, plan on being there at least two hours prior to check in. If you are flying Lufthansa, Air France or any of the other network carriers, be there even earlier: 2.5-3 hours are good. If you have the choice, check in online or using the check-in terminals, and take carry-on luggage only. Just don’t pack any liquids greater than 100 ml, you horrible terrorist, you. How my shaving foam poses a threat to aviation security is beyond me. Does it smell that bad?

I’m writing this in Prague Airport, where I had the privelege of being served a cup of watery capuccino for six euros. Six euros! I’m never going to complain about Athenian coffee prices again. It was served by a large Czech barmaid with bottle blond spiked hair and a nose ring, who cheerfully range up the bill and thus contributed to the Czech Republic’s stellar economic performance.

Who would have thought it could be so easy? I call upon the Greek tourist authorities to immediately raise all prices by 25%. Damn customer complaints: full speed ahead with our economic convergence with Europe!

Chicken Limassol

2008-05-30T18:09:00.000+03:00

Yesterday I worked in a leading Cypriot chicken processing plant. Somehow, this should sound more impressive than it actually does. I mean, did I really slave my way through university to say that I spent a day working at a leading Cypriot chicken processing plant? cluck cluck cluck.

Never mind. It’s hot. I’m exhausted. And it’s Friday afternoon. I’m going to tell this story come hell or high bouillon.

I’ve been in Cyprus since Tuesday, seeing one company per day. These are participants in a Lean Sales training programme (yes, it’s really called “Lean Sales”), who are entitled to a full day follow-up session. And yesterday it was the turn of the chicken plant.

It’s a modern facility of sweeping lines and glass-walled offices, set in an industrial estate in the hills above Limassol. From the reception area, you see the beautiful, hazy blue Mediterranean down to the south. To the north, the pine-covered Troodos range looms. It’s got to be the nicest little chicken processing plant in the world.

Have you ever seen a chicken filleting line? It's really something. Stainless steel equipment, gleaming tile walls, shock freezers, and lots and lots of chickens. Whole fresh chickens, frozen chickens, chicken wings and drumsticks, chicken burgers and nuggets, chicken gyros and souvlaki… you get the idea.

The carcasses are rolled up in plastic mesh boxes from the slaughterhouse. They are passed down the line on a rolling belt, where white clad workers hygienically slash their way through the day’s work. First the neck. Then the chicken is lifted and speared on a vertically-rotating spike. The wings and drumsticks are slashed off, one person per carcass, revolving it to reach its other side. Any remaining skin is stripped off. Then the hulk is removed from the spike for filleting. This is the most labour-intensive process. You need several strokes of the knife to take off the fillet, but you want to preserve as much meat as possible. After this, little is left but bones and gristle. I didn’t want to ask what happened with the remains, but they are used for something.

All the while, workers move purposefully back and forth, wheeling trolleys, barking out orders, opening refrigerators, dressed in their aseptic white costumes, hairnets and gloves. Between watching the flashing lines of plump chicken carcases making their way to the supermarket shelf, dodging menacing trolleys on a slippery tile floor, and making sure the damned hairnet doesn’t snap off, it’s more challenging than usual to look professional.

To make things even more surreal, the plant manager was a simalcrum of a slightly older James Franco. The chicken carcasses spun on their proverbial wheels. Doughty Bulgarian women slashed pink chicken flesh with their steely knives. Peter Parker's nemesis gave me the evil eye as I tried to explain the concept of net customer profitability. I thought for a moment I might have been a character written into the wrong movie.

But this too came to an end. We ate oven-baked chicken in the cantina. We drank iced frappe and discussed numbers. We swapped war stories. By 17.00, as we were all running out the steam, George made his discrete entrance, his black Mercedes gliding through the factory parking lot just outside the conference room. I shook hands all around, sang my praises and farewells, and was floated back to Nicosia in air conditioned splendour.

Today is Friday. It’s 18.00, over 35 degrees, and I’ve just returned from another memorable factory. I’m exhausted, short several G&Ts and will soon leave for Larnaca Airport and home. Another tough week on the road: 60 hours travel and work in four days.

In this fog, Prospero’s words bring a soaring comfort to mind:

You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Sir, I am vex'd;
Bear with my weakness; my, brain is troubled:
Be not disturb'd with my infirmity:
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk,
To still my beating mind.

The Arizona

2008-05-18T15:27:00.005+03:00

I’m back at the Arizona Restaurant in Kiev, Dire Straits on the stereo, cigarette smoke in the air and the Eighties are alive and well.

The story of how I found this place is one of those consultant tales. Back in October 1999, I was bidding on a project for a financial institution. This IFI had lent $ 40 million – a large amount at the time – to a leading drinks company in Ukraine, and was looking for a consultant to monitor the marketing side of the loan. What was the client selling in volume and value terms? Were prices competitive? Would the loan be repaid?

In 1999, Kiev was the wild East. The Russian rouble had devalued in 1998, dragging down many of the regional economies with it. Inflation was north of 10%, the dollar was king, and Leonid Kuchma was President. Life today in Ukraine is in technicolour: back then it seemed to be in washed out shades of grey.

I flew up on a Friday and had my first meeting with the bank at around 16:00. Excellent meeting, great communication first time round with Yurij, who would become a good friend. The problem was, the company could see me on Monday at 11:00.

So, I went back to the Domus hotel, in Podil. The sky was cloudy, rain was promised, and I had to figure out how to spend the weekend without making a mess of things. It’s tough, on your own in a city like Kiev. So, I adopted that useful tactic: I asked the hotel where I could find a good restaurant. And the receptionist recommended the Arizona, which was just down the street on the river.

Back then, the restaurant scene in Kiev was a little dismal. In this desert, Arizona was an oasis. The boys in black didn’t exactly check their guns at the door (like they did at the Tropicana in Almaty), but there were enough VIPs at any given time that overt hostility was frowned upon. The place was a microcosm of society, or at least that part of society that could afford a $10 hamburger.

There were representatives of multinational companies, Ukrainian oligarchs and their stunning companions, American families out for a night on the town, pretending for a moment they weren’t on the Dnieper but maybe in Memphis. There were computer executives, consultants, government officials, customs officers, and salesmen of all sorts. There were bankers and development aid officials. There were students and interns and embassy officials and businessmen. At one point, everyone who was anyone passed through the Arizona.

And me. At the Arizona, I could buy a Herald Tribune, play a round of pool, read a book, hack away on the laptop, order countless pots of coffee and dream of home. While it was raining outside, it was warm – and safe – inside. On that weekend, I probably spent over 16 hours inside the place.

Friday afternoon I met Sacha, an excellent pool player in charge of the pool room. We passed the time, shooting one rack of 8-ball after another while it rained and rained. Gradually the place filled up, and I decided to head back to the hotel. Back in 1999, I could just keep up with him. Later, he got better, and I stopped playing when I moved from Athens to Paris, where the concept of spending time in a pool hall somehow isn’t quite the thing. Sacha left the Arizona sometime in 2004: I’ve lost track of him since then.

The next day I walked around just after lunch, catching the tail end of the lunch crown. I stayed until Saturday night, shooting pool, drinking beer and passing time. Around seven that evening, I was playing pool, when a pale glabrous fellow walked up in a black, ankle-length leather coat and pointed to the cue. We started to play, and that’s how I met “Uzi” and Mikhail and their crew. Uzi was my nickname for him: he looked like that fellow in the Dirty Harry movie who walks into a restaurant and sprays the room with a machine gun. Under his leather coat (remember, this was before The Matrix came out) he looked like he had several. Uzi, reassuringly, worked for a nuclear safety institution.

Mikhail was the leader of the crew. As I learned, he drove a white Mercedes, always had two or three very attractive blondes with him, and knew all the flash places. As we were playing pool that first night, I asked him what he did. He handed over a business card which said “Panther Airways – President”. I asked what “Panther Airways” was about, and got the full story. At the time, sanctions were in full force on a certain Balkan country (or what was left of it). The idea was to lease idle JAT aircraft, base them in Ukraine and rake in the cash big time. I don’t know if this ever materialized or not, but somehow I don’t think Mikhail needed a day job.

From Arizona, we made our way to a Latin place, where the mambo was king. The place was packed, raucous, noisy. Cigarette smoke, vodka fumes and beer slop; sweating dancers and salsa music and crazy lights. Kiev on a Saturday night. Both young and old were oh so happy to be alive, letting go with an insistence that was remarkable. After Chernobyl and glasnost and collapse and independence and hyperinflation, dancing seemed like the one thing everyone could do, in any style, and it was enough to keep moving to loud music to avoid standing still and letting your memories catch up with you. I rode the wave as long as I could, but just after midnight was tapped out and returned to the hotel. The rest of the crew stayed out till breakfast, as I found out the next day.

Sunday was the same routine: walk around Kiev in the morning, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. Lunch at Arizona. 8-ball in the afternoon, with Uzi paler than usual. Even nuclear scientists and airline executives need sleep, so it was an early dinner, then bed.

The meeting at the drinks firm went very well on Monday, although I got the impression that they weren’t quite sure why I was there. I sat at a wooden table in the dark as seven or eight executives filed in and sat across from me. They turned out to be the dearest people.

By 15.00, I was through the forbidding lines at Borispol airport. As I passed the final check to board the Austrian flight, the warm smell of coffee wafted up the boarding tunnel. The hostess chirped her Gruessgott in her quaint Austrian accent. I have seldom been so glad to board a flight in my life.

Today of course, Kiev is different, as am I. The Arizona is still there. The décor is the same, the menu is the nearly same. Fewer people though, so I get my favourite table to myself nearly every time. Mark Knopfler steps right up to the microphone…we are the sultans, we are the sultans of swing.

Brussels: The Conrad Forever

2008-04-11T16:59:00.003+03:00

The Brussels Conrad

I used to be a great Hilton fan. Growing up in Athens in the 1970s, the Hilton was the place to be. A relic of the early 1960s, with all the optimistic American mindset that went with it, the Athens Hilton was the place to stay, to eat, to attend a conference, etc. By the mid-1980s, it was faded and desperately needed a renovation. The food was atrocious, the staff indifferent, and the rooftop Galaxy Bar was more often than not beset by phalanxes of little old ladies with purple hair and Chanel bags. It took the renovation for the 2004 Athens Olympics to restore something of its former greatness, although in my opinion the verdict is still out.

The Hilton brand in the UK suffered much the same fate. The chain made a catastrophic strategic error in expanding through buying chains such as Stakis. While this increased the rooms under management, the properties and staff which went with them were far too disparate in terms of facilities and service. As a result, I’ve stayed in some truly heinous buildings in London, Edinburgh and Glasgow claiming to be Hiltons, and have come away quite disgusted.

Luckily, in 1982, Hilton decided to launch an exclusive, truly five star chain, intended for those discerning travellers who wanted quality and presumably didn’t want to be suckered into staying at a 3* hotel with a 5* bill. This is the Conrad brand, named after the legendary Conrad Hilton. Today, the brand numbers a small number of properties, spread out in cities including Brussels, Singapore, Bangkok, Dublin and others.

I recently returned to the Brussels Conrad in last April, after a 10 year hiatus. Deciding where to stay in Brussels was discouraging. The city is slowly transforming itself into the capital of the European Union, complete with grandiose offices housing the new imperial bureaucracy. As a result, hotel prices are absurd. The cost increases the closer one gets to the Grand Place, but frankly this price differential is hardly warranted, either by the neighbourhood or by the property. I spent a good 4 hours online searching for the right place. The Conrad was only EUR 50 more per night than most safe-looking four star properties (most of which look quite dodgy). Disgusted by the loss of time and by my own stinginess, I decided to exceed my per diem and chose The Conrad.

The hotel is fantastic. Check-in was smooth, and as soon as my HHonours Gold Card slid across the desk I was upgraded to a superior room and offered breakfast for free: quick, painless and easy. The staff knew what they were doing. At many properties, they often have no clue about this card, prompting an unseemly scramble for the shift manager, who’s off flogging the squalid IT consultant who’s frantically trying to repair the crashed wireless connection….the delay goes on and on while that vital, first-minute impression is lost.

I stayed on the fourth floor: the room was large and superbly outfitted. Facing the internal courtyard, it included a sublimely comfortable bed, excellent desk (with adequate space for a laptop and files), a sofa, and a fantastic bathroom. The furnishings were in good condition – again, a welcome changes from the ragged carpets and scuffed walls in many 5* properties. Lighting was excellent: I particularly appreciated the two bed lights, which were just right for reading in bed, as well as the desk light.

The Conrad - Room Detail

The staff is extraordinarily helpful, and the management outdoes itself in small personal touches. There is a free shoe shine service, for instance, which I found absolutely grand. I was so happy I tipped the fellow who shined my shoes on Sunday afternoon probably as much as the normal hotel charge, but was really happy to do so-and my shoes are still in good condition two weeks and two flights later. There is an excellent in-room filter coffee machine and tea-maker. I was really pleased to receive a free bottle of Vittel mineral water daily, as well as the regrettably small packet of Jules Destrooper cookies. And yes, the hotel has free copies of the Financial Times everywhere – in the lobby, at breakfast, in the bar… In my travel pantheon, anyone handing out free FTs is right up there at the top.

Breakfast is superb. Along with Le Meridien in Limassol, this is the best hotel breakfast I’ve ever had in terms of quality of ingredients, attention to detail, staff service and range of food. The bread was fresh – a real delight – not that sad frozen stuff they pop in ovens and then let harden into indigestible golf balls in most hotels. I was amazed to find lightly fried aubergine slices, watermelon, several types of fish and all sorts of other delicacies on offer. The scrambled eggs are real eggs, and the bacon as it should be.

I only availed myself of breakfast and room service at the hotel. Breakfast is at the Café Wiltshire, which is tres grand: I’m not sure how I would evaluate eating lunch or dinner there. I rounded out my days in the hotel bar every night: an excellent place, with clubby furniture, a barman who knows what he’s doing, attentive staff and good prices.

There’s an excellent business centre behind the reception. High speed b/w printing, a high-speed photocopier, two or three PCs, high speed internet access, plenty of space to work – all without charge.

There is a superlative gym and spa in the basement, but it is run on a separate basis from the hotel, and basic entry is EUR 25. Their equipment is state-of-the-art, although if you don’t know how to manipulate the Technogym running machine, you may be stuck watching Belgian talk shows on the built-in plasma TV screen while you sweat the calories away. This is punishment I can take, I suppose, just not very often.

On the whole, an excellent hotel in every respect. I recommend it unreservedly for businessmen, couples on a city break, and families with well-behaved children. I was so happy to stay there, it made sitting through the tedious European Commission meeting I was attending quite bearable. For me, the only place to stay in Brussels is at The Conrad.

Limassol: L'Onda Sanctuary

2008-04-11T16:54:00.004+03:00

The L'Onda Pool

In my world-weary, cynical experience, there are three kinds of hotels in the world:

• Those that you are unhappy to arrive at, and happy to leave;
• Those that you are happy to arrive at, but happy to leave;
• Those that you are happy to arrive at, but unhappy to leave.

The L’Onda is the best kind of hotel: I’m always happy to arrive, and always feel I could stay at least two or three more days to catch up with myself. Small, unassuming, in the heart of Limassol’s tourist area, the L’Onda started out as the first suite hotel in Cyprus. After a long period of somnolescence, it transformed itself into a boutique hotel – one of the few real such properties in Cyprus – and has gone from strength to strength ever since.

What makes the L’Onda different? It’s not the scale of facilities: the pool is laughably small compared to the Amathus, Four Seasons or Meridien. It’s not the architecture: sandwiched between apartment blocks reminiscent of Beirut, there’s nothing architectural to distinguish it. And it’s not the beach, a hard-packed, meager strip of black sand.

What distinguishes the L’Onda is its attention to detail and its high quality of service. The rooms – no longer all suites, alas – are outfitted with carefully chosen teak and hardwood furniture, including some unique touches such as the olive-wood closet handles. They are impeccably clean and well-kept: I’ve never staying in a room that’s scuffed, tired or faded, as I have at so many other 5* Cypriot properties.

Although some rooms are small, their internal lay-out is such that they seem larger. Each room has a Nespresso machine with coffee and tea facilities, high-speed internet condition, and all the mod cons. The bathrooms are a particular delight, with Molton Brown toiletries which are always welcome.

The suites are really special. They usually include two bathrooms, a bedroom and full sitting room, very tastefully decorated, light and airy, not heavy and deadening. Refreshingly, the property is not ironic, which seems to be a motif in most overly self-conscious boutiques of this kind. I would definitely recommend booking a suite, especially since they are very moderately priced, and once you’ve stayed in one it’s a terrible let-down to go back to a standard room. A word of warning on rooms: try to get one with a full sea view: most are side sea views, and what you see are apartment blocks on either side.

The restaurant is good-to-excellent. Their lobster salad with caramelized scallops is superb, though neither ingredient is fresh, given supplies in Cyprus. The wine list is average: they are missing a good Riesling for seafood, or a Brunello for some dishes. The menu doesn’t change that often – it could do with some re-thinking. Breakfast, though correct, is a little bit minimal. The buffet includes those hoary favourites fried eggs, sausages, bacon, stewed whole tomatos, and haloumi, and could do with a revamp. It is possible to order scrambled eggs, omelettes and such.

The Caprice Bar

A highlight is the Caprice Lounge and Balcony. Modelled after the Mykonos Caprice, it fills up between 19:00 – 11:00 with the languid buzz of high society. During my stays there I’ve seen various ministers, managers, models, actors and other worthies.

The gym and spa are well-equipped, with professional staff in the spa area. The front office staff is extraordinarily helpful. This past visit, I was finishing a proposal, and they readily provided an AA battery for my mouse, a high speed LAN cable for internet access, photocopies, a stapler and hole puncher and all manner of encouragement. Honestly, this is rare.

There are only two negative things, if they can be called that:

- The elevators are two steel coffins left over from the 1970s. They are probably too awkward to replace, but they should be at the first opportunity.

- The business areas are inadequate. There is one large conference area on the ground floor just to the left of the entry, and one underground “board room.” The conference area is tired, lacks natural light and is a little depressing. I’ve seen it used to store luggage, but never for an actual event. The Board Room is well-equipped (save the carpet), but is underground, and impossible for day-long meetings. On the bright side, the lack of such facilities means a refreshing absence of tubby accountants in rumpled suits and mobile phone addiction.

I would unreservedly recommend the L’Onda for businessmen in Limassol for 2-3 days. It’s small, contained, tres chic, and refreshingly different from the 5* dinosaurs down the road. I don’t recommend it for people looking for the ultimate, 7-day, 6-night resort vacation, or families.

Cadaver Driver

2008-02-16T10:50:00.002+02:00

“You never met him,” George said, squinting out the windshield of his Mercedes at the inky Friday night on the way to Larnaka airport. “Old man Iannakis died about thirty years ago. But every morning I would see him reading the newspaper outside Markiello’s taxi office, a small bottle of zivania in front of him, and a cheesepie. He would be reading the obituaries, and saying ‘We ate this one. We ate that one. That one we left behind.’”

“In those days, see, we didn’t have ambulances, or hearses. So whenever someone needed to move a corpse for burial, they would call our taxi office, and we would call Iannakis. “I’m arriving,” the old man would shout happily, and there he’d be, ready for work.

“Iannakis drove corpses all over the island. He’d pick them up from the hospital morgue, all dressed up in their Sunday finest, slide them into the front passenger seat, and off he’d go.

“This one day, he was told to drive a corpse to Pafos from Lefkosia, clean across the island. It was a good 4 hour drive back then, what with the bad roads. He put the corpse in the front seat, fastened its seat belt, slid an unlit cigarette between its lips, just for effect, and set off. It was a £ 30 fare: serious money back then.

“A little way outside Lefkosia, on the highway, he runs into a little old man, a gerontakos, at the side of the road, standing there with his hand out. ‘Can you take be to Geroskipou?’ asks the little old man? ‘Sure,’ answers Iannakis, ‘but you have to sit in the back seat. My passenger’s sleeping.’

‘He’s sleeping?’ asked the old man. ‘But why does he have a cigarette in his mouth?’ ‘He told me he’s trying to quit.’ answered Iannakis. ‘What do I know?’

“And so they passed the four hours drive to Pafos, listening to a bit of radio, talking politics, sport, women. It was really a long way back then, before the new highway. You went through Lemessos, through the fruit orchards, and along the coast.

“When they finally got to Geroskipou, just outside Pafos, Iannakis dropped the little gerontakos at that old bakery that used to make loukoumia. ‘Thanks’, says the gerontakos to Iannakis, paying his £ 8 fare. ‘We made it.’

‘We made it, echoed Iannakis. ‘Goodbye,’ said the gerontakos. ‘I hope your passenger wakes up.’ ‘How can he wake up?’ exclaimed Iannakis, who had been waiting for this moment the whole drive. ‘He’s dead!’

“The gerontakos was so shocked he fell down in the middle of the street. He just spent four hours in the back of a taxi with a corpse in the front seat!” George cackled, dissolving both of us into paroxysms of laughter.

The rest of the short ride to the airport passed quickly, another hard week over, and home and the weekend in sight. On the way, we passed one ambulance and one taxi, but the passenger was really smoking.

The Hash Stash

2008-01-26T13:14:00.002+02:00

This story was recounted to me by George, my Cypriot driver friend, whom I’ve known for 6 years now, nearly half my life in the units of time measured by taxi drivers. It’s rare to find someone you can trust. George trusts me not to take another taxi and pay the right price. I trust George to be honest and on time. It’s worked well for both of us. These are his stories, recounted at the wheel of his Mercedes, usually between Larnaka Airport and my hotel. They’re infinitely better in the original Greek: the obscure slang, the scatological adjectives, the shared hilarity of Homer’s language. This doesn’t come through in this English translation: hopefully I’ll get better.
_________________________________

“I’ve never done drugs in my life,” George said, stabbing me in the forearm, his eyes narrowed to slits in his leathery face as they often did when he wanted to make an important point. “And I suggest you do the same. Stay away from them, they’re a curse. I’ve never taken them, never sold them, never wanted them, never had anything to do with them. Except once.

“We had just taken a container ship from Saudi, when Apostolis, St. Apostolis, a Greek officer, ran up to me and pressed a thick joint of fragrant Arab hash into my palm. A really fine piece of work, velvet, thicker than your finger, top quality. What was he doing with it? He liked to smoke it in the gulf, the open sea, to pass the time. What else was he to do? Each person has his own loves and miseries.

“George”, he said “quick, take this. The Captain’s doing an inspection of my cabin.” He pressed it into my hand, and rushed on. There are at least 259 places to stash contraband on a container ship, and where do I go to hide it? In my cabin, of course. I went to my dresser, opened the drawer, and you know how you put one sock in the other to roll them up? That’s where I put the hash. Just rolled it up in my socks and forgot about.

The next morning I get off the boat with my suitcase, ready to ship out. All fresh and happy, I walked up to the customs officer at Pireaus, who asked me, “Anything to declare?” I was fresh, happy and had forgotten all about it. I said “What would I have to declare? I’m just a poor beaten-down seafaring man. All I have is this suitcase with my old clothes”. Without being asked, I slammed it down on the bench in front of him, started to unzip, and a strange smell came out but I really didn’t place it. The officer said “Don’t worry, on you go.” So I zipped it up and walked out.

I checked in to the Atlantis Hotel in Piraeus, waiting for my next boat. I unpack my clothes, go to put on a fresh pair of socks, and smack, the joint hits the floor. Suddenly, I could place that smell! It was the joint! I was so shocked, if you had stabbed me with a knife, I wouldn’t have bled. Apostolos had gone out last night, slept in late, hung over, and forgot to tell me anything. And because it wasn’t my joint, I had forgotten all about it. My God, what was I going to do? If they catch you with that thing, you go to prison straight away.

So I picked it up, snapped it into three pieces, that fragrant morsel, and flushed it down the toilet. Flush, down it went. Then I went out to the Star Club, owned by my friend Michalis. I walk up to the barman, tell him what happens. “You son of a bitch,” he cried, “why would you want to waste a beautiful thing like that? Don’t you know I could have sold it to 12 ruffians here?”

And that’s the end of this story. Don’t go near the stuff. In Mexico, we could buy a kilo of it for $ 300, and sell it in America for $ 3,000. But you’re dealing with death. Stay away from that stuff.

Twelve months later I ran into Apostolos again, waiting to crew some ship in Piraeus. I was walking on the harbour at Mikrolimano, the place full of sailors, a real panic. “George, hey George” I heard someone shouting for me. I turn around, and who do I see but Apostolos. “Apostolos, how are you, what’s new, let’s go for a drink”. “Never mind the drink, Apostolos shouts, “where’s my joint?”

That son of a bitch. He nearly got me put in prison for something I didn’t do, and one year later he’s still worried about his joint!

Venice Ai Tre Ponti

2008-01-11T19:42:00.000+02:00

Santa Croce 359/B - Rio Terá dei Pensieri - 30135 Venice
Tel +39-041-710962 info@aitreponti.com
http://www.aitreponti.com/eng/b&b.asp

I spent a good deal of time on the Internet, trying to find a convenient hotel in Venice, with two bedrooms for a total of four people, which looked clean and not too dodgy, but was also within a reasonable budget. We weren’t staying at the Grizzi Palace – this time – and I wanted something which would allow us a night’s rest in between our transit from Ancona and Turin. This was a ski holiday, but a good chance for a quick visit to La Serenissima.

So when Christine booked the Hotel Ai Tre Ponti, I was a bit worried. The hotel is in Santa Croce Ovest, quite some ways from St. Mark’s Square, and near the train station: I usually associate train stations with dodgy people.

Arriving at the hotel was remarkably easy: we parked at the Municipal Parking Lot and after a 3 minute walk (and only one bridge to cross), we were at the hotel. Use the Municipal Parking: you can lock your car. In the adjacent St. Mark’s Parking, they insist that you leave your keys in your car, which I would never do.

From the outside, I had that sinking feeling: the hotel looks like a bit of a dive, not the palazzo you might be expecting. But once inside, we were charmed. We had booked the “Suite”, at EUR 200 per night. You go up 3 flights of stairs (no elevator, so pack light), and have a spacious and well-light main floor which includes a double bedroom, bathroom, sitting room with sofa and TV and kitchen. Another internal flight of stairs leads you up to a second bedroom and bathroom. There is a beautiful view of the canal from the main bedroom windows.

The Suite is well-equipped, with a full cooking range, refrigerator, sink, cleaning area, etc. The bathroom includes a stand-up shower with sliding screen doors. There is lots of room, and the authentic wooden ceiling beams lend a nice touch to the place. The hotel is good for two couples (one living upstairs, one downstairs) or a family of four, with lots of room and comfort. One extra person can probably sleep on the sofa in the TV room.

Although on the outskirts of town, the hotel is very convenient:

- A 3-minute walk from the train station and arrival point for busses;
- A 1-minute walk from the vaporetto stop;
- A 20-minute walk through the streets of Venice to St. Mark’s square;

There’s a bakery just 10 metres outside the hotel, to the left, one of the few authentic bakeries we found, so breakfast is easy. Guests are given keys to the hotel, so there is 100% independence for coming and going. The Suite's bathrooms are very clean, but as always, bring your own toiletries.

Three disadvantages of the hotel:

1. Some of the guests downstairs were a bit loud…luckily they feel asleep about midnight. Sound travels.

2. The heat turned off around midnight, and started again at around 07:00. Luckily, there were extra blankets in the room. If you are staying in November – March, be prepared for cold weather.

3. The manager, Maurizio, is not at the hotel full time, especially between 13:00 and 17:00. Make sure you time your arrival to coincide when he is on the premises, otherwise you will be walking around Venice with your baggage. Call/email in advance.

Bookings
We booked directly through the hotel at http://www.aitreponti.com/eng/b&b.asp

Turin Holiday Inn Via Gaidaro

2008-01-11T18:01:00.000+02:00

Holiday Inn Express
Via Paolo Gaidano, 12110137 Turin (Piemonte), Italy
+39-011-311-3322
www.hiexpress.com

One of the best hotels I’ve ever stayed at in terms of value for money, the Holiday Inn Express in the southern suburbs of Turin offers very high quality rooms and amenities at an extremely competitive price.

We stayed two nights, 29 December 2007 and 4 January 2008, en route to and returning from La Rosiere, a ski resort in the southeastern French Alps, and this hotel was extremely convenient. It is only 2 km from the tangenziale, Turin’s ring road, on the south-western side of the city, and offers secure underground parking.

On each stay, we booked two adjoining non-smoking rooms, for a total of EUR 75 per night. That’s right, 2 rooms for EUR 75 per night, everything included: tax, breakfast, parking. Admittedly, it was low season, but the hotel was quite full due to families like ours, traveling to and from the ski resorts.

The rooms are very well outfitted. We stayed in rooms 203-204 in December, and 304-305 in January. Our room had a very large double bed, with high quality sheets, pillows and a comforter. The adjoining room had two single beds. Each room has a Philips flat screen TV which also provides internet access, a large desk and comfortable chair, and multiple plugs (220 V electricity using a standard European double socket as well as Italian triple sockets) and data points. (Note: UK travelers will need an adapter; US travelers need an adapter and transformers).

Each room has an in-room water heater, with complementary coffee and tea packs provided. The bathrooms include shower stalls with sliding screens, hair driers, and electric plugs. There was abundant hot water, clean towels.

The internal architecture comprises clean lines, free of clutter, using woods and fabrics with clean lines and a warm contemporary feel. It was a real relief to be in the rooms after our road trip from Venice (going) and La Rosiere (coming back).

Breakfast is amazing. The hotel has a copious buffet, serving bacon, sausage and scrambled eggs; Italian cold cuts and cheese; fresh fruits; yoghurts; lots and lots of bread, pastries and confectioneries, and excellent coffee and tea. A real highlight is the real hot chocolate and real orange juice, which is unlimited. Make sure you get there between 08:30 – 09:00 at the latest: the earlier the better (breakfast ends at 10:30, but the staff stops replenishing many of the dishes at about 09:45).

The staff is extremely helpful, both at reception in the evening and morning, as well as in the restaurant at breakfast. There are three staff serving breakfast, and they are often a bit overwhelmed, but if you can get their attention, they’ll serve you fresh cappuchino, tea, espresso and set the table. Our biggest problem both mornings was getting a table, but we came down late at 09:45.

There is WiFi access in the lobby, and a PC for internet access and limited printing in the basement, near the internal parking entrance. Underground parking is free and in the room price when we stayed (there may be an extra charge in the summer, when it’s high season).

There is a medium-sized supermarket right next to the hotel, handy for buying some groceries and drinks for the road, which is cheaper and more convenient than the gasoline stations on the highway.

There are three disadvantages of the hotel:

1. It is in an industrial neighbourhood in the south of Turin. Don’t expect fancy architecture or lots of restaurants around the hotel. Getting to the centre is relatively easy by car or taxi, but you need a good map if you drive your own car.

2. There is no in-house restaurant, apart from breakfast (at least in the winter, when we stayed). On the other hand, the hotel has an arrangement with an external restaurant, and we were able to order good pizza at a very good price (between EUR 6.50 – 8.00 per pizza, better prices than most hotel room service I’ve tried).

3. Like all Holiday Inns I’ve stayed in, it provides Lux hand soap and hair shampoo in squeeze bottles: I advise guests to bring their own toiletries (which I do in nearly every hotel I go to anyway).

These disadvantages are easily outweighed by the fact that the hotel offers excellent value for money (2 high quality rooms at EUR 75 per night total); a top-of-the-line breakfast, parking and easy access to the highway. It’s secure, convenient and ideal for visitors traveling by car who choose Turin as a stopover point.

Bookings
We booked our first night on www.venere.com, an excellent Italian hotel booking engine. The second night, we booked directly with the hotel, and were offered the same rate.

Dinner at the Tropicana

2007-12-23T13:10:00.002+02:00

From a letter sent to friends, in late July 2001

Dear Christine,

I swear I saw Marilyn Monroe at the Tropicana last night. She was wearing a white dress and some Kazak fellow in a shiny chrome suit was chasing her. Was it my relief of surviving a week of 14-hour days? Was it the steak the size of a swimming pool I was eating? Was it the fourth gin & tonic? Either way, I'm sure she was there.

The Tropicana is a veritable oasis in an otherwise colourless city. It's something like Bogart's bar in Casablanca, or a grand hotel in Havana before Fidel. Everyone who's anyone is there: bankers, oil men, the boys in black turtlenecks, and assorted other dignitaries. The tablecloths and napkins are of real linen, the china slightly chipped but servicable, and the cutlery clean.

And, there's the floor show. For about 2 hours, an array of clothed, half-clothed and unclothed Kazak nymphs and other interesting people take your mind off your troubles and the sordid world outside: the chrome suit chasing Marilyn, a thick Bulgarian dressed in a Hawaiian shirt & pith helmet belting out oldies and goldies....

Last night I realised that all these years of consulting, all the sleepless nights and the washed-up feeling of too many airport transfers had finally paid off: I had made it into the upper echelons of society - at the Tropicana!

The rest of Almaty seems pale and drab by comparison. The trees are green, and the houses are brown or grey, and there are few cars on the street. The oil money that was supposed to transform this country into the Saudi of Central Asia has yet to appear. The weather was four days of sunshine, and another four days of rain.

The most interesting part of the city is its people. Being here is simply exhilarating: you never know who you're talking with. Kazaks claim to be able to differentiate at least between the three main ethnics groups or clans, but with over a hundred sub-clans or ethnic groups to choose from, who's counting? The full range of features exists from white Russian to Turkish to Korean, Chinese and Mongolian. Everyone speaks Russian, and everyone seems to get along.

Tomorrow we finish some meetings here, and depart for Bishkek by road. I am looking forward to the trip. Somewhere along the way is the mysterious lake of Issy Kul, nestled somewhere in the mountains. We won't have time to stop (surprise surprise), but maybe can see it coming back to Almaty next Sunday.

According to one associate who emailed me last week, Kyrgyzstan is supposed to be the "Switzerland of Central Asia". I can't wait. But even if it doesn't live up to its name, I know that I will always be welcome in Central Asia - at the Tropicana!

Here's looking at you, kid.

Philip

At Chrysaliniotissa

2007-12-23T13:07:00.000+02:00

At Chrysaliniotissa
I stopped a while
in the quiet moonlight
that lit the yard.
Cars in the distance
rumble and die.
A night owl calls
on our side or theirs,
I cannot tell.
Above me
the stars, the moon,
Jasmine and mint in the air.
The blue-white flag
snapping
alive in the night,
her steel halyard
clank-clank-clanking
in the wind.
I look to my shadow –
my shadow looks to me.
Together, we rise
and leave for home.

(c) Philip Ammerman, 2006

Kebabs of Mass Destruction

2007-12-15T10:38:00.000+02:00

How to Win the War in Iraq by Christmas
Athens, 14 October 2004

Dear Friends,

I read in the International Herald Tribune Wednesday that the US Air Force destroyed Hussein’s kebab store - “considered one of the best in Iraq” - in a precision air strike on Falluja. Luckily, Hussein’s was empty at the time. I can just see Wolfowitz managing the operation back at the Pentagon: “No, I didn’t say ‘Target Hussein’s gyros,’ I said ‘Target Hussein’s silos!’”

The other explanation, of course, is that it’s part of Rummy’s Revolution in Military Affairs.” After all, a famous [French?] general once said “An army marches on its stomach.” What a brilliant idea: cut off their supply lines and that terrorist army will have to surrender!

So, in the tradition of good citizenship, I’ve applied my consulting skills to the challenge of winning the war in Iraq cost-effectively, innovatively and using terms everyone will understand on November 2nd (Election Day).

Here’s my 8-Point Plan for winning the war in Iraq by Christmas. Read it to the music of any TV advertisements by the fine dining establishments mentioned in this letter:

1. “Big Mac Attack”: Don’t stop at Hussein’s Kebab Store! Let’s consolidate our gains in the Global War on Terror with a super-sized approach to precision bombing! We’ve got the planes, we’ve got the targets, and we’ve got the technology! If it worked on the Ho Chi Min Trail it’ll work in the Sunni Triangle! I’m lovin’ it!

2. “Home of the Mahdi Whopper”: Prefer a compassionate conservative approach? Have it your way! Don’t drop the food, fry it for that original fire-grilled taste! Re-train Muktada Al-Sadr’s Mahdi Army in modern food science, and watch those religious fanatics become law-abiding, underpaid, and disenfranchised members of society! They can run, but they can’t hide!

3. “Kentucky Fried Fallujah”: The Colonel’s Secret Recipe beats “Chemical Ali” anytime! Replace the UN’s corrupt and ineffective Oil-for-Food programme with our deep-fried chicken, sourced 100% locally from Arkansas and other Middle Eastern states! It comes in economical, family-sized buckets of 8, 12 or 16 pieces, ideal for the Iraqi household’s weekly needs! They’ll greet us on the street with flowers!

4. “Pizza Glut”: Still having problems at Abu Gahraib? Can’t get those high-value prisoners to talk? We’ve got the solution for you! Just feed ‘em our stuffed crust pan pizza three times per day, and they’ll sing like canaries! Fat canaries! It’s steaming hot, it’s freshly made and it comes with a choice of 42 different toppings, all made of pork! Best of all, it’s completely allowed by the Geneva Convention! Top of the line in every way!

5. “Taco Hell”: Still can’t pacify Sadr City? Give ‘em both barrels with a spicy, corn-flour taco, stuffed to the brim with 100% lean beef, iceberg lettuce and the Commander-in-Chef own special sauce all the way from Crawford, Texas! It’ll blow their socks off!

6. “Chalabee’s”: If you thought the Iraqi National Congress was a great idea, wait ‘till you see our newest nation-building concept! That’s right, friendly service in a hometown atmosphere is the name of the counter-insurgency game. We’re opening new locations in Ramadi, Nasirya, Falluja and Tikrit! Welcome to our neighbourhood!

7. “Krispy Kerbala”: Supply lines cut off? Halliburton can’t get through? The solution is now at hand. Our new fuel-air bomb guarantees results! Set one off over that pesky insurgent town and kiss your supply line problems goodbye. Original glazed!

And, finally, for all you Atkins fans, there’s a new plan in town. The “Allawi Diet” applies classic “drain the swamp” tactics to the Iraqi Quagmire, with guaranteed results! Specially designed by the CIA, this low-carb, high-intensity approach will win the hearts and minds of those terrorists and dead-enders, making Iraq and the Middle East safe for democracy!

Whew, all these ideas have made me hungry! Saving the world for democracy is hard work. I’m off to Thanassi’s in Monastiraki for the best kebab in the world. If Wolfowitz calls, don’t tell him where I’m eating!

Cheers,

Philip*

*Philip does not own shares in any of the fine dining establishments or military-industrial complexes mentioned in this letter!
Over the top? Yes. Make you sick? Yes. Like the War in Iraq? Yes.

Rain in Athens

2007-12-15T10:12:00.000+02:00

Rain in Athens -
Friday morning, June 9th.
Waiting again at the gas station:
the roaring traffic,
the crashing pumps,
an attendant shuffling his dirty wad of cash
his broken syllables give lie
to the neon promise of glamour and speed.
Then home
to twenty six TV channels of garbage,
to bank statements and telephone bills,
to the garish ejaculations
of the fast food menus scattered by the door.
There is a curious freedom here,
a freedom our grandfathers gave their lives for,
a freedom we stumble across
in the late night footage
of pale limbs and faces desperate
with the foreknowledge of what is to come
etched in their eyes -
Arbeit Macht Frei and Babi Yar
and all the things we choose to forget.
A freedom we confidently relinquish
but for the morning rain.

(c) Philip Ammerman, 2006

The Kyrgyz Massage

2007-12-15T09:58:00.001+02:00

Bishkek, sometime in late July 2001

Dear Friends,

I spent all last Saturday working on a client report, and by 17:00 I was fed up with repeating myself on paper, so I hopped into a taxi and navigated my way by hand signals to the Hyatt. Once in this veritable oasis of charm in an otherwise Central Asian capital, I quickly ascertained that for only $ 25, I could have full use of the gym, which included a weight room, sauna and jacuzzi.

Given that this was my first workout in about a month, I quickly changed and started running off a few excess kilos of lamb sashlik, followed by a quick spin in the sauna. It was fantastic! All my cares fell away, and I imagined myself carefree and young once more, brimming with energy, vigour and well-being.

And that was where hubris winked. For a mere $ 10 supplement, the attendant informed me, I could have a 30 minute massage, sure to restore me to perfect health after a stressful 16 days in Central Asia. How could I say no?

The first indication that something might be wrong was when Gulmira, started pounding my back with fists like hammers. As jolts of pain ran up and down my spine, I began to think that this was not the kind of soothing massage I was accustomed to in the decadent capitals of Europe. No no no, this was the Kyrgyz version, guaranteed to make men strong enough to ride from Bishkek to Ulan Bator in a single week. This was the real secret to Genghis Khan's success.

Following the tenderising, she started to push outwards on each rib right at the point where it joins the spine, as if to snap it like a stale breadstick. "You have problem here!" she crowed helpfully."I didn't before I got here, honey" I thought to myself. Discretion is, after all, the better part of valour. "This is medical massage!" she said proudly, pausing in her labours."Medical is what I'm going to need after this, darling" I thought.

The head "massage" felt like she was trying to remove the hair from my head with sandpaper. Maybe it was at that point that she started naming her tortures: "This is the Ladder of Pain. This is the Symphony of Agony and Repentance". (Or maybe it was my imagination).

But the best, as usual, was saved for last. This was when she bent my elbows backwards at right angles, and ground on some itty bitty nerve running over the shoulder blade. If you've ever seen a fish flopping in the bottom of a boat in its death agonies, this is what I was doing, only louder.

At the end of it, my back felt as it someone had driven over it - repeatedly - on a Range Rover, then punched holes in it with an ice pick. But you know something? It worked! This 30 minutes did restore me to perfect health. I was so happy to be alive, I practically flew out of that gym. So happy, in fact that I went upstairs to the lobby lounge and had a gin and tonic while the Hyatt's chamber music quartet massacred - but really massacred - Mozart's "Eine kleine Nachtmusik". It was the end of another happy day in Central Asia.

Cheers everyone,

Philip

Karaoke in Kharkhiv

2007-12-09T22:03:00.000+02:00

Some of these stories I can only tell a long time after the project I was working on is over. Well, this project ended in August sometime, and the company we were looking at decided not to work with our client, a multilateral development bank, so I guess I can tell this story. Most of you don’t know this, but I used to play alto saxophone in high school, and sometimes the music bug bites me and I get lyrical.

So one night in Kharkhiv last May, we were at a totally atrocious restaurant: me, Maria A., Nick Lokot, and Kyriakos (from Cyprus), trying to decipher the menu, which was absurdly thick and horribly expensive. Around 22:00, the place was empty, and this jazz trio started setting up on our floor. Maria and Nick got tired, went back to the hotel, leaving Kyriakos and me all alone on the third floor, vodkas in hand, and this INCREDIBLE band who could literally play anything you asked for. The lead singer was Leyla (from Armenia), the saxophonist was also from Armenia, and the bass player was Iranian (if I remember things correctly).

We had a blast. They could play all the things we were playing in Jaffe's jazz/blues band junior and senior year of high school: Sunny, Mercy Mercy Mercy, Watermelon Man, Obla Di Obla Da, Take Five, When the Saints go Marching In... it was a real trip down memory lane.

We closed that place down: they invited us to another restaurant they were playing at the following day. Well, it was near the end of the project, the place was empty (again), and the later it got, the more I asked myself what I had to lose. No, I didn't borrow the sax, but I did make a special request, stepped up to the mike, and ...

Fly me to the moon and let me sing among the stars...

Not karaoke: Real live music. Wow. There's life after consulting!

Immortal Princeton

2007-12-08T11:19:00.000+02:00

I'm late with yet another report, working yet another Saturday morning. Just remembered some immortal lines carved into a study carrell in the depths of Blair Hall, from freshman year at Princeton.

Here I sit
pissed, not elated.
I came here to study
but procrastinated.
But don't you laugh
not a moment more
'cause ten bucks has it
you've done it before.

Ozymandius

2007-12-08T10:49:00.001+02:00

I was in Uzbekistan on a due diligence mission in Andijan. Driving back and forth from Andijan to Khanabat, and then Fergana, and still later in Tashkent, a poem was running through my mind, something from long ago, but I couldn't remember its name. Finally, sitting on the 04:00 Turkish Airlines flight, waiting for departure, talking to some blessedly interesting people from the OSCE, I remembered:

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said -- "two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert ... near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lips, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked then, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,

Look on my Works ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away."

The Som Millionaire

2007-12-01T18:35:00.001+02:00

I was briefly a millionaire last Saturday in Tashkent. This is me in the Dedeman Silk Road hotel, having changed EUR 800 for UZS 1,500,000.

My father always tells me not to spend it on one place. Well, I did. At the Reception Desk. Paying for our rooms.