CityHangover Guestblog Vol VIII

About a month ago, I had the pleasure of backpacking (for a week or two, at least) across Southern Africa with Dr. Rajat Gupta. (I can imagine many of you assume I'm still wandering aimlessly somewhere in the hills of Swaziland, but that's neither here nor there.) Given that I pulled DRG away from curing AIDS, eliminating the conflict diamond trade, and generally saving the world from a Botswanan hospital, we shall stretch the "Guestblog" guidelines for one final entry.

With that, my friends, I present the first CityHangover Guestblog to originate nowhere near London. Coincidentally, today's entry is the first (and probably last) to be absolutely free of hangovers. It is a testament to the trip that I even made it through...

How To Win Friends and Influence People: Lessons learned from 8-days in Southern Africa



Eight days is not much time to travel in Africa, but I had the pleasure of sprinting across a corner of the continent with finance extraordinaire CJB. By applying a few simple management techniques learned in the corporate world’s boardrooms, we were able to see and do more than I could have hoped for. Now I share these secrets of success with all of you, with the hope that you can apply them to your lives and African safaris as needed.

Sexual Harassment: A Team-building Activity For Every Group: On Day #2 we left crime-riddled Johannesburg for a pre-arranged Safari-in-a-box. For a couple thousand Rand we were assured a ride from Johannesburg to Kruger National Park, room and board for 3 days, and open vehicle guided tours through the park. Noticeably missing was a promise that we’d see the Big Five animals—Lion, Leopard, Buffalo, Elephant, and Rhinoceros. Anyone can see a worthless Zebra or Giraffe, but success is determined by the Big 5. Three out of five is acceptable, four out of five impressive, and five out of five unheard of. By the end of our first day we were stuck at 1 out of 5 (and a goddamn buffalo at that), so the pressure was really on for day two.

Lucky for us, the next morning kicked off with the perfect start. One of the women in our safari group had a little too much to drink the night before, and spent the night with a gentleman she met at the bar. Clearly setting an alarm wasn’t on their list of priorities, and at sunrise she had to be found, awoken, and rushed to the jeep so we could start the safari on time. CJB seized the opportunity for team building, and orchestrated a round of applause as she made the walk of shame. The jokes kept coming through the morning, and everyone got in at least one good zinger. Our safari guide was clearly better at innuendo than spotting animals, and he was followed by a randy Frenchmen, Pascal, his fellow French expatriate Chantele, Aaron the chain-smoking Australian, and even a married Dutch couple chiming in. You could feel the tension of needing to see the Big 5 melt away with every dirty joke, and that’s when the animals started rolling in. Lions, Rhinos, and Elephants started showing up out of nowhere, and at the very end the coup de grace came with a spotted leopard eating an impala.

Some would say we sacrificed the dignity of one of our own for the good of the team, but she was a great sport the whole time, and was just as happy to see the Big 5 as we were. So there it is, sexual harassment—a victimless crime.

Everything is a Negotiation: Fresh off the success of conquering the Big 5 we decided to trek to Mozambique with Aaron the chain-smoking Australian. Mozambique may be the land of beautiful beaches along the clear blue water of the Indian Ocean, but getting there is easier said than done. Since we hadn’t arranged visas beforehand we couldn’t take direct buses to the capital city, Maputo. Instead we made makeshift arrangements to travel in mini-buses, which basically means “dudes with vans”. One mini-bus took us to the border, and we figured after a quick stop at the immigration office we could find a comfortable ride to Maputo. That did not happen.

Turns out they only recently completed a violent revolution to overthrow the Socialist regime, and the immigration office is still run like a Soviet-era bread line. And it was hot like I can’t even explain. After waiting in line we were dripping with sweat, which made filling out the forms written in Portuguese all the more interesting. By the time we got our passports stamped all the air-conditioned buses had left, leaving us with few options. I halfway expected to spend the night at the border, but luckily there was a mini-bus headed for Maputo. We knew it wasn’t going to be comfortable with 16 people packed into an 8-seater van, and we knew it wouldn’t be safe packing into the 20 year old pile of junk, but at least we knew it was going to be cheap—just 3 dollars a person.

But clearly I know nothing about the art of corporate negotiation. So CJB stepped into talk the driver down by 5 rand, which is about 60 cents. 60 cents?!?! 60 cents. Even better, the driver had no idea how to respond. I mean three years ago this guy was living in a Communist country, so the capitalist rules of engagement did not apply. He shook his head and muttered something in Portuguese (which I bet loosely translates to: From Each According To His Ability, To Each According To His Need). Without other options we just turned back and paid the original price.

Once we got to Maputo we saw the cultural insensitivity of our tactics. We were staying on Mao Tse Tung Avenue; a stones throw from the intersection of Vladmir Lenin and Ho Chi Min. The lesson learned: In countries without a Mao Tse Tung Avenue, everything is a negotiation.

Common Sense Trumps Executive Decision Making: Our final adventure took us to Swaziland, where we were reunited in the picturesque mountains with the randy Frenchmen, Pascal. The decision we were agonizing over was whether to go white-water rafting on the Great Usuthu River, which sounds great until I tell you that a medical school professor of mine who was working in Botswana was EATEN BY A CROCIDILE ON A NEARBY RIVER. That’s right, eaten by a crocodile. No matter how irrational it sounded, I did not want to go rafting.

CJB, however, brought the art of executive decision making to our dilemma. He quickly decided not to raft, but before we even knew it we were carrying our bright yellow crocodile-attracting raft to the river bank. I still don’t know what happened there, but am glad it worked out how it did. We even got tossed out of the raft on a couple of rapids, but crocodiles be damned we got back in and finished the trip.

And there it is, three easy to apply business principles that will streamline efficiency in your next African safari. Enjoy.

Yes, I'm Alive

New Years Resolutions, as stated on January 1st, 2007:

1. Get a new job (or a job, at least)
2. Go on a budget
3. Stay off the booze (at least for January)
4. Re-Launch CityHangover from New York

Status, as of January 14th, 2007: 0/4.

Yeah. I have my work cut out for me. In the interim, I'm on my way out to spend an exorbitant amount of money on margaritas. Even in racist states tomorrow is a holiday, after all. Patience, Daniel-san.

Temporary Service Disruption

I'll be leaving you all to your own devices for the next week or so, as I'm off to Africa to adopt Dr. Rajat Gupta and return him safely to The Land of The Free. Don't worry, I've shot up with a plethora of immunizations and am popping the requisite anti-Malarial pills (and enjoying the subsequent insomnia/nightmare tandem), making Africa far less dangerous to my health than a night at School Disco.

From there, I guess this London experiment has to come to an end. It's been a lot of fun gathering cultural learnings for make benefit glorious U.S. and A., but home is calling and the dollar sure as hell isn't gaining any ground on the British pound.

I'm not sure what I'll do with this quaint website of mine come 2007, although I don't doubt I could find a way to continue to drink excessively and put myself into awkward situations in NYC. And what could be better than weekend travelogues from White Plains, New York and Newark, New Jersey?

Hmm.

CityHangover Guestblog, Vol VII - The Lost Weekend

Apparently, emotional trauma often results in adverse affects on the brain. In extreme cases, this trauma can even cause memory loss. I have no better explanation for such an inexcusibly tardy post of the 7th, and likely last, CityHangover Guestblog entry. Admittedly, the weekend of Nov 17th was a rough one for all of us (insert moment of silence here). I myself only remembered it when I felt the BCS knife twisting in my back a few weekends ago.

Lest you think I associate my guests with curious human poll reshuffling and computer calculations shrouded in secrecy, I should note that Arshi, as one of my first direct employees, taught me many positive things. Inappropriate office eye rolling and the term "floater" (a 2nd shot for one's post-work drink) come immediately to mind.

Without further ado...

London Lessons



Since I'm new here, I thought I'd introduce myself -- I am one of the lucky few who used to work for CJB. That's right, folks, they actually let him manage people and their careers (all jokes aside, he's pretty good at getting other people to do his work). Anyway, plans for my trip initiated when CJB was back in NYC for a brief stint in September – we were at a happy hour with some colleagues, enjoying beers while listening to his newfound fake British accent. After a few, he says, “Oh, you should totally consider coming to London – I have an extra room now!” Given his history of making offers he doesn’t mean while under the influence, I confirmed that it was indeed okay the following day under more sober conditions. With that, my roommate and I proceeded to book the trip to London.

Following the trend of past Guest Bloggers, I’ve listed out a few of the lessons that I’ve gathered based on my experience:

1. Bring his dorky PowerPoint directions with you unless you want to be detained upon landing at Heathrow. I was almost detained since I could not provide an exact address for where I was going – the woman wanted postal code and all (in hindsight, I should have gone to the Indian guy, where I may have been able to flirt my way through — see below). I mentioned as many places as I remembered based off of conversations with CJB. Still no progress. Anyone who visits CJB knows of the uber dorky PowerPoint slides that provide directions to his office. Immediately after I presented these slides to the woman, I was granted admission into the country, as I guess they offered some legitimacy to my visit. One point for the dorks!

2. Curly-haired women beware – your flat-iron may cause explosions and black-outs. Admittedly, I have an unusual and slightly ridiculous obsession with ensuring that my curly hair is straight at all times, so I brought my $200 hair straightener to London to tackle the frizzies that would surely generate in London's humidity. CJB was at work, but told me that my electronic devices would function if I just used the converters that were lying around all over the flat. I plug my flat-iron into the converter and am ready to beautify – as soon as I make contact with the converter, there's a brilliant pyrographic display of sparks, a minor explosion, a loud pop, and smokiness. About 1.2 seconds later, the lights and power go out, and I'm left in complete darkness in a total state of panic. I run around trying to see if anything had been salvaged – TV? DVD Player? Phones? Stereo? Nothing was working. Finally, I find the circuit breaker, flip the switch, and an overwhelming sense of joy pervaded as all the power came back on. This joy only lasted a short while, as I realized that not only did I lose my expensive straightener, but that my hair was still curly. I did manage to straighten my hair using a normal house iron (it's a sick obsession) – now that's perseverance and innovation.

3. Timing is everything in London: Don't go to clubs before 10pm and do not search for food after midnight. After a few Peronis at an after-work bar, we ended up heading to a super-trendy club called Pacha. CJB and I were unsuccessfully pleading with his Brazilian friends to go to a karaoke bar, but the thought of him drunkenly belting out "Glory of Love" and "You Oughtta Know" just didn’t appeal to them for some reason. We arrive at the velvet ropes of Pacha and are charged a €15 cover, only to discover that the six of us are the only people in there (besides these two 12-year-olds and a gay guy who was blatantly making the moves on the men of Amex). There was this one fascinating woman who sported a pair of excessively tight red patent leather pants and had a penchant for dancing – on tables and on laps. Meeting her almost did make our investment pay off, and don’t ask me why I woke up the next day with her email address in my purse.

We ended up leaving the crew after a surge of hunger for non-alcoholic nourishment took over, so we hit the streets of London searching for anything edible. Dramatic proclamations such as, “Oh my God, I’m going to DIE if I don’t eat soon” were made, but there was nothing in sight. After walking around and nearly getting hit by a couple of cars (we couldn’t figure out when to cross the street because the lights make absolutely no sense), a beacon of hope shone out to us in the form of a tiny Indian diner – our eyes lit up and we salivated at the thought of chicken tikka masala and naan. As we approached our savior, CJB devised a strategy to ensure that we satisfied our hunger, “You have to go first and flirt with them – speak to them in Hindi or something.” Normally I don’t flirt to get my way, but this was a matter of life and death. After some clearly drunken and broken phrases in Hindi (where I insisted on getting whatever our waiter recommended), we managed to order £29 worth of food, headed back to the flat and devoured it like animals. One of the most satisfying meals ever.

4. Do not depend on CJB when he’s drunk and trying to get with a girl.
I became an Ann Arbor girl the day of The Game and proudly donned maize and blue – I mean, let’s be honest, I went to NYU, where our only D1 team is fencing and our school colors are purple and white (uhhh, Go Violets?), so this was pretty exciting for me. I approached Sports Café, the only bar that shows American sports, only to find a line a block and a half long. While the line was ridiculous, it was comforting to see so many obnoxious Americans in one place – feels like home. During my hour and a half in line I learned "The Victors" and trash talked to a bunch of OSU folk. Once inside, I got so into the game that afterward, an OSU guy came up to me and consoled me because, “I saw you, and you were the one that was watching the game.” I guess I played the part well?

Meanwhile, CJB was trying to cope after the loss by making the moves (“Here’s my business card…oh yeah, you like that, don’t you?”) on Girl With Boyfriend (GWB). The initial plan was to head back to his flat, change, and then go to my roommate’s birthday party, which was being held at a London club known to guarantee a hook-up, but after GWB entered the picture, I was on my own. I head outside searching for a taxi, only to find that the taxi to human ratio is far too low in London, and earlier I had learned that some taxis are affectionately referred to as, “Rape Taxis.” After running around outside for 15 minutes, I finally find one, get in, and cross my fingers that it’s not a rape taxi. Upon safely reaching the flat, I realize that I have no idea where the party is, so I try contacting CJB via text message, voice mail, and several phone calls to no avail. Finally, I receive a phone call at 2:45am, “Where are you? You should come out – we’re at this club. What’s it called? I really would like you to come.” I politely refuse and spend the night with Yul and “Aitu” as I watched two episodes of Survivor. At around 4am, I hear stumbling and awaken to find CJB sitting on the couch, staring into space. He explains how unfair life is because GWB had a boyfriend. After seeing the pain in his eyes, I decided that it was redemption enough for being ditched, and almost felt bad for making the lengthy long-distance calls that I made on his landline earlier in the night.

5. Other miscellaneous thoughts
-Expect 2-year-old toddlers to dress better than you do – they’re wearing fur coats and heels before they can walk.
-In order to fit in, say everything a little cuter than you normally do – for example, add the suffix “-loo” to everything you say. “Sorry-loo” “Nice to meet you-loo” etc. Also, check out how you’re supposed to describe your cough to a pharmacist.
-Embrace the Ugly American in you – the trip wouldn’t have been as enjoyable without: Making fun of the euro-mullets and pseudo rattails that were everywhere, going to Westminster Abbey and discussing the hottest dead royalty based on casket paintings, and just being generally loud and obnoxious.

'Tis the Season - Cont.

I received the letter to the right under my door today. It's from John and Glynis (worst name ever?) Billett, who apparently lead the management board of my swanky temporary apartment complex. J&G are hosting a Christmas party next week in the lobby of the building and welcome my (me?!) attendance. How nice.

I've underlined my favorite parts of their invitation letter, in which they firmly establish that Jesus' manger bound first days and resulting Christmas spirit mean nothing come January. You got that, County Estates? Happy Effing Holidays, suckas!

'Tis the Season

Ahh, the holidays. A time for giving, family, and drunken office parties. You would think the latter would have found itself phased out of Corporate America given years of awkward mornings after, right? Nish nish. And in Europe, these things appear to be even more likely to result in a post-open bar visit from the ombudsmanperson. Words can't begin to describe the hilarity of my company's black tie London party, which took place this week. As such, I've included a brief trailer for your viewing pleasure.

Let's start with some context. I work at a Fortune 100 company known much more for its conservatism and general stodginess than for innovation or groundbreaking products. It's a "Best Careers for Working Mothers" kind of place, if you will. If only those poor house husbands knew what their women were up to.

I think my favorite part is when the guy on the left, in a celebratory nod to our strong year-end net income results, starts dry humping the woman laying on the floor. Admittedly, it's tough to catch with that flame eating woman gallivanting all over the place. Yep. This is where I work. And I haven't even mentioned the women dancing in suspended cages. During dinner.

School Disco Postmortem

Well well. Here we are, nearly a week after my courageous foray into the world of School Disco, and I haven't provided you with a proper update. My bad. Really. Unfortunately, between work Christmas Holiday parties (separate post forthcoming), work work, and turning 50 ish (holla AARP), this week has left little time for recaps. But enough is enough, as they say. Back to business.

First, I can imagine that none of you are familiar with this "School Disco". I'm not surprised, as my research indicates that it was unfairly left out of Lonely Planet's 2006 guide to visiting London. Then again that may be because it's a borderline brothel (would that get listed under "sights" or "nightlife"?). Picture this: It's 1988, and you've stumbled across a large congregation of people - about 60% women. It appears to be Halloween, but unlike most years, in which girls are dressed in an assortment of slutty (insert costume here) costumes, these women have exhibited a Nostradamian level of foresight. Each and every one of them is dressed as Britney Spears circa 1999 - at the height of the intoxicating video for "...Baby One More Time". And man are they frisky. You, my friends, have found heaven...ahem...School Disco.

I had been hearing legends about this place all year, and finally got to see the ridiculousness with my own eyes Saturday night. I learned the rules, threw on my favorite cardigan and borrowed English school tie, and proceeded to make a series of poor choices at the expense of only my own integrity. What can I say? My loneliness was killing me.

I have a hard time believing that this place opens its doors to these types of crowds every single Saturday night. That said, I've never been more relieved to wake up on my couch alone. I brushed my teeth like 3 times just at the thought of where my mouth had been. Ugh.

Who's up for next week?!

'Cause Mama Didn't Raise No Fool

As I embarked on my walk to work this morning I was surprised to hear 2Pac's Changes blaring from my iPod earphones. I didn't remember listening to 2Pac on my way home last night, nor was I particularly in the mood for a "2 Pack" joint, as my dad would call him. However, after a few bars, I realized that my iPod was trying to tell me something by shuffling to this posthumous anthem.

As a result, I've committed myself to a difficult, yet important change of my own. I'm putting myself on detox until, well, Saturday. At that point I'll dress up in a school tie and trousers in hopes of meeting some studious ladies in short skirts and knee highs at a club called School Disco (what else?).

I think I'm going to go as a teacher.

Rat tat tat tat tat, that's the way it is.

CityHangover Guestblog, Vol VI

Look out people, the CityHangover Guestblog series can now be counted on two hands...

This installment comes courtesy of the illustrious J-Buckets, known for her skills in luxury living and underage drinking, to name a few. As the better half of the visiting New York born and bred L-Unit (her partner in crime has a bunch of his own internets), Buckets came, saw, and conquered Londontown like none only a few before her. And when the going got tough, she singlehandedly saved Thankgiving dinner, for which I am forever indebted.

Surviving Thanksgiving



If there is one thing I truly learned during my time in London, I’d say it is that Survivor is everything. EVERYTHING. All of the crucial moments of the trip can somehow be understood through a Survivor lens. (Survivor Wiki).

The Immunity Challenge: Cooking a Thanksgiving dinner in a country other than the United States. There were a number of reasons why cooking dinner was so difficult. In the first place, CJB’s sweet apartment did not come equipped with many of the necessary materials for cooking like pots, pans, measuring cups and measuring spoons. We got about half of these, not including the measuring items. CJB’s oven is not exactly what we Americans come to expect in a fully equipped kitchen. One would think since duck is so popular in England, turkey would be also common. Well, it’s not. Finding the ingredients for turkey—and pumpkin pie and various potato dishes—is not an easy task. The most challenging aspect was converting all of the American recipes into metric measurements so we could buy the right amounts (a shout out to Microsoft Excel). The carving of the turkey was not easy either. In this challenge we even had our very own Jeff Probst in other Americans at the grocery store. We were so loudly and comically struggling to find the ingredients and amounts that the other Americans in the store came over to us offering candid commentary and advice. I think Probst would have appreciated their efforts.

The Reward Challenge: Pilfering a bottle of wine from a restaurant (don’t worry, it was one that we had purchased) during an already dramatic meal. (Note: most of this is heresay from Joey.) Somehow, a viewing of the Chelsea v. Manchester United game took a serious turn to drunken town. After we returned from Clapham two porn magazines richer, we had dinner at Pizza Express (I think). We immediately had the waitress watching us because of an altercation with a lemon. I really do not like lemon in my water. So before the water was poured into the lemon-bearing glass, I threw the lemon on the table. CJB then threw it on the ground, to which the waitress responded, “I can see the lemon.” It was an auspicious beginning. At the end of the meal, we had only half-drank our bottle of wine. We attempted to take it, but the waitress wouldn’t let us. Not letting a wine tyrant get in our way, we successfully snuck that wine out of the restaurant. I think the reward is obvious: pride and wine.

Camp Discussion Between Challenges: 4 words—Yul, Terry, Gupta, Claudia. Not only was this trip Survivor-esque, but we talked about Survivor a lot. Yul from Survivor: Cook Islands was definitely the most discussed, but was closely followed by Terry from Survivor: Panama. Joey filled many conversations with his deep love, admiration and respect for this Terry character. CJB and I were unfamiliar with this Terry, but Joey just would not stop gushing. He must be pretty special. After Terry, there is Dr. Rajat Gupta. Gupta was mentioned up the wazoo. He was cited as someone to ask a bevy of questions; someone who has great achievements; someone who everyone loves; Gupta this Gupta that. There was really a lot of Gupta talk. Joey and CJB also claimed that I talked about one of my friends, Claudia, just as much as they talked about Gupta. However, I think that it is just not true. (Note: this Survivor discussion may not have been so dominant had this past episode not been so solid. I am still reeling from it.)

Tribal Council: 13-year-old English girls vote out three Americans. One of the funniest moments of the trip occurred as we were approaching Windsor Castle. We were discussing something, and given my two companions, it can only be assumed the discussion was of high volume. I guess something that was said was ridiculous or typically American because these three 13-year-old English girls started making fun of us. And how did they make fun of us? They invoked the rhetoric of Borat! They taunted us with “Yegshemesh! Yegshemesh!” It was HILARIOUS. Borat is really taking over the world. Or maybe I should say, the tribe has spoken and they are in an alliance with Borat.

The moral of the story, of course, is that Survivor is everything and if it doesn’t fit into a Survivor metaphor, it is just not worth mentioning. In any case, it was a great trip.

Mission: Impossible

Wish me luck. Although I typically prefer to drink my holiday meals, in a few hours I'll be hosting 10 people for a reenactment of the first Thanksgiving. Coincidentally, this will be my first attempt at cooking a turkey, mashing potatoes, and opening a can of cranberry jelly and slicing it into little pieces (you wouldn't believe how many stores I had to go to to find those effing canned cranberries). Fortunately I've got some help.

I was surprised to have so many attendees after pitching the meal as a chance to be poisoned and relegated to a future of alcoholism and gambling addiction - but it just goes to show how far some people will go for free food, doesn't it? Although we may not be able to replicate the harsh, violent aftermath of that first Thanksgiving meal, with an even split of British, American, and Brazilian attendees I'm hoping for at least a little cultural warfare via Taboo or charades. And drinking, of course. U. S. A. ! U. S. A. !

I've got two friends and my mother on call beginning at 9am EST for support with any disasters. And there are sure to be some.

(Note the cans of Ready Whip in my fridge (well, a look-alike whipped substance, at least), which is what Thanksgiving is really about anyway.)