Les Petits Contes

About life's little observations, which matter. About hilarious situations, which illuminate. About stories which offer immense possibilities, open endings, different interpretations and perspectives.

Name:
Location: Asia, Singapore

Melancholic but with a quirky sense of humour

Saturday, February 18, 2006

Not a Typical Singaporean


Laura must be thinking I am a strange Singaporean, who does not eat and who does not shop in Paris.

She is my friend’s friend – a Singaporean married to a French and living in Paris and rents out her studette, a few floors above her apartment, to budget travellers like me.

She took me ‘’marketing’’ at the open air market and supermarket on Rue Poncelet in her 17th district neighbourhood.

She pointed out the ‘’best fruit stall’’, ‘’ the Aux Enfants Gates boulangerie with the best croissant’’, the Comtesse du Barry store with great fois gras and gourmet food, the best chocolatier in the neighbourhood (on Rue Courcelles), even the best house-brand madeleines and palets Bretons and galettes Bretonnes (at LeaderPrice supermarket). She kept urging me to get some. I told her I have just caught a miserable cold and would prefer some fruits and perhaps salad, since I had not been eating well in Barcelona.

So I got one grapefruit, some strawberries and a carton of juice. ‘’That’s all? What are you going to eat tomorrow?’’ she asked. ‘’I will figure out… anyway I will be out tomorrow…’’ I replied. ‘’Aren’t you going to get some bread to go with your salad?’’ she asked twice. ‘’Er no…. ok – since you recommended, I will get a croissant for tomorrow’s breakfast, and a macaron for lunch today’’, I told her, since Denis back home reminded me to try macaron in France.

‘’I take you to Comtesse du Barry and buy some fois gras lah… you can buy in very small cans – just nice for one person per can to go with your salad…, ‘’ she urged. And when I got there, she kinda made me get five cans. (I think they will last me a year!)

In the evening she invited me to dinner. The white wine that Jacques her husband chose was excellent. ‘’Are you sure you want more, since you are not feeling well?’’ he asked.

The crust of Laura’s chicken pie was burnt. ‘’Don’t write in your blog that she burnt the pie,’’ Jacques said. ‘’No, I am sure she will write everything, and she will even write that Jacques told her not to write about the burnt pie,’’ Laura joked.

‘’So what did you do today?’’ Laura asked. I told her I had gone to Rue Royale to get my chipped Lalique ring replaced at half price (they wouldn’t do it in Singapore even though I had bought it there!) and then to Jardin des Tuileries. ‘’Huh?! That’s all for the whole of Saturday?’’ I could sense her disbelief.

Her reaction: ‘’My other Singaporean friends would be spending one whole day at Galeries Lafayette and another at Printemps, and buy at least five branded bags. And to save all their money for shopping, they would not eat at restaurants but would buy food or maggi mee at the supermarket, cook them at the studette…’’

I felt I had to ‘’justify’’ my time. ‘’Ya – I sat for a while at the garden and time just passed.’’

But it was true. I just slumped on the chair facing the pond at the Jardin, oblivious to my numbed fingers and the cold, watching the ducks and kids, and wondering where my energy had gone.

Two years ago I had been full of energy and had walked non stop from morning to night all over Paris, not relying on the metro. I had even gone jogging at Jardin du Luxembourg.

Now I prayed that I would get my energy back, that I would get the life and fire in me lighted up again. I prayed that it was temporary, and that it was purely due to the cold that I had caught, on the very day of my arrival.

Friday, February 17, 2006

An Asian in Paris


I did something shamelessly Asian (the ‘’negative side’’ of Asian-ness): I participated in the legendary long queues outside the Louis Vuitton store at Ave. George V. Japanese, Hong Kongers and rich Singaporeans are known to be the worshippers of this store and do regular pilgrimages to this store whenever they visit Paris. In fact, for some, it’s the main reason for going to Paris. Some Western tourists stared curiously and snapped pictures of the queue. I turned away, not wanting to be caught in the stupid act.

What made me do such a thing like queuing in the cold to enter a store (for me it is like war-time rationing for food!) I will never understand. I have been to Paris so many times and I have never thought of doing so. Heck – I don’t even like LV products!

Maybe it’s for the fun of it. Maybe I just happened to be walking towards the Arc de Triomphe and decided to ‘’drop by’’ along the way. Maybe I thought I should do it ‘’just once’’ for the experience, since this may be my last trip to Paris. Who knows what will happen when my company eventually merges with the other company this summer?

So I stood for ages at the queue. When I first joined it, it was really short and I had not expected the wait to be so long and that the queue would get longer and longer.

The guard at the door would let people in only when some shoppers leave the store, which was not even crowded! (I am sure it was a ploy to create the idea of ‘’high demand’’ of the store) But later, the guard saw the growing crowd and decided to let more people in.

I went in and could not find anything to like. I simply cannot comprehend why some people can like the real ugly designs and the even uglier and crass repetition of the LV logo all over their products. Does one need to do free advertising for the brand, or to tell the world that they can afford an LV? True, they say it’s ‘’quality’’ and that each piece is ‘’hand-made’’. Well, a lot of less expensive brands are ‘’hand-made’’ and even made by the very same factory and craftsmen of these ‘’exclusive brands’’!

I tried to appreciate a pair of shoes and asked for my size. The salesgirl took her own sweet time – she was in no hurry – I am not her well-heeled regular customer. ‘’Let me clear the glass for my regular client and bring her a cup of tea first,’’ she must be thinking as she removed the glass on the table and went to fetch some tea. After an eternity she came back to say they did not have the size I wanted.

So I walked out. The guard must be so surprised I was the only one who left the store so soon and completely empty-handed. ‘’Au revoir’’, he greeted me with some curiosity.

Sorry boss. I tried to shop and buy something very ‘’French’’ like an LV and contribute to your country’s economy, but I don’t have Asian taste, lah.

You see, my boss Remi had excellent timing. Just as I was checking out of the hotel in Barcelona, he rang to tell me the amount of 2005’s year-end bonus I was about to receive end of this month. It was an ‘’impressive’’ amount that ‘’not many people can get’’ and he had ‘’pushed very hard for it’’, he said. I thanked him for the good news and he said, ‘’now, I think you can do some shopping in Paris!’’

Actually, what I treasure most whenever I travel to foreign lands is to be able to meet up with friends living there. To drop by for tea with Anissa in Shanghai, coffee with Winny in Jakarta, drinks with Kayoko in Tokyo, dim-sum with Agnes in Hong Kong, seafood with Andrew in Sydney, dinner with Gordon in London, and now, a cosy home-cooked dinner with Anne and Philippe, who live near La Defense.

I still remember trekking with Anne at Mt Allauch in Aubagne last year, and the compote she taught me how to make. This trip, she has moved to Paris, is pregnant and not as agile. Still, she made us a nice warm meal. But I was struggling to keep alive during dinner. Surely it was not the wine, but my headache, and inexplicable tiredness that overwhelmed me.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Paris in Winter


''Janet Loh-moment'' happened the very evening I arrived in Paris via Barcelona.

The airport shuttle I had booked on the internet did not show up. The ‘’toll-free number’’ I rang was not answered.

Oh heck – I should have just taken a cab and not bothered with the shuttle – I have had a long tiring week, a heavy suitcase, a bulky hand-luggage and a laptop. And it’s windy and freezing cold at the waiting area.

The next morning, I rang the shuttle company. The guy who attended to me, Emile, was very patient; he promised to investigate and to return my call, even if it was an overseas mobile number - in Italy they would not have called overseas - “of course I’ll call back’’, he said when I asked if he would. When he rang later, he asked if I had seen the ‘’confirmation email’’. I said yes. ‘’Well, the date you booked is for today, madame, did you know that? Good thing you called – or we would have sent a driver tonight!’’

How could that be? How could I have gotten the date wrong?! The only reason I could think of was – I was over-exhausted and perhaps in a state of half awake-ness at unearthly hours in the middle of the night or very early morning (at the hotel room trying to clear work emails, make such bookings, etc).

Since my credit card has been charged, I tried to negotiate for a pick up from the studette I am renting to the airport on the day of my departure. Emile readily agreed and promised to call back again after checking on the availability of his vans.

When he rang, he said he would ‘’guarantee pick up at 6 pm – the latest time the company could manage’’. What?! My flight is at 11.15 pm, and I had requested for pick up at 8.30 pm! What a good marketing chap he was, using words like ‘’guarantee’’ and saying that I could call just the day before to see if they have vans available at a later time. “I have put a special note here to say you request for a later time, you can even call to ask for me…’’

Too tired to argue, I asked what was the percentage of chances of changing the pick up time (he had replied ‘’good chance’’ but I had pushed him for a more precise answer!). ‘’About 80% chance you can change’’, he assured. I said OK and hung up, unconvinced. The minute I did that, I regretted and felt so stupid. I had forgotten to flirt, again! How many times male colleagues and friends have advised me to be less tough and to ‘’act the weak woman’’ and how many times have I simply refused or forgotten.

With Emile, I should have tried. Ya – do some whining and pleading and telling him how miserable it would be waiting for hours alone at the airport, how it was a mistake in the first place due to my carelessness and how he could please please please try and help me out...

After all he has been really friendly and reassuring and even jovial at times right from the beginning. ‘’Don’t worry, I’ll investigate’’ he said, when I told him about the non-arrival of his shuttle. ‘’No, I am not worried, I am just calling to say it did not turn up and since it’s over and nothing could be done, I wanted to negotiate for a return pick up on my departure instead,’’ I replied, very business-like, very logical, very no-nonsense.

‘’Of course, blah blah…’’ he went on. And even after fixing the 6 pm pick up, he rang a third time, to ask if I knew that the email confirmation had been sent to a different email id from the one I had booked…

A Most Pleasant Cab Ride

Come to think of it, I don’t regret not catching the shuttle on my arrival. I had a heart-warming conversation with the taxi-driver. It’s a pity I did not ask for his name. In life, we meet lots of one-time anonymous people/ friends but I would want to be remembered by a name. It’s nice to be called, ‘’hey Janet…’’ rather than, ‘’hey, Mr Taxi- driver’’.

Well, this Parisian Mr Taxi-driver told me a lot of things. He mentioned it was the end of school vacations and hence many were returning to Paris, and hence the busy airport and roads. He asked if I was familiar with Paris and said I spoke French very well.

I told him I had forgotten most of my French since I had taken it up ages ago but he said he could ‘’sense that you know the language very well, simply by listening and talking to you; it’s just that you might have lost your vocabulary and it should slowly come back.’’

‘’In any case, French is difficult – with all the verb conjugations and tenses – subjunctive, plus que parfait, blah blah blah, ‘’ he continued. I laughed; imagine talking grammar with a cab driver.

Grammar, places to visit (he was telling me about Sacre Coeur cathedral’s wall being made of a special stone), some stories (related to the country’s history and economy) about busy highways full of trucks (he even told me not to take certain routes if I drive in Paris!), history of France and weather details aside, he started telling me practically his life story, even the year he was born. Maybe he was friendly with me because his ex wife is Vietnamese.

He mentioned how he had custody of his daughter since she was six and how he had to work 60 hour week (‘’I can’t afford to work 35 hour week like some others’’) to raise his daughter single-handedly, pay for her education and for the debts his ex wife incurred after leaving him.

“I am proud of my daughter - she is now 23 - she went to Sorbonne and is now in the best communications school studying journalism’’. I could not catch the name of the school but I asked for her name instead (strange – I did not ask for his but for the daughter’s!). ‘’Bianca – it means white,’’ he replied. ‘’I wanted three daughters, but I have only one’’, he shrugged.

I asked if education was ‘’free’’ in France and it got him all worked up. Ask any French man about politics and he would get all passionate, animated and critical. He started saying the slogan ‘’liberte, egalite, fraternite’’ is so ‘’hypocritical’’… I could not catch some of his words but he basically was saying (if I understood him correctly) that education is expensive if you want to go to a good school and it’s certainly ‘’not free’’. Then he dragged in Villepin the Prime Minister and said how he sent his own son to private school instead of public school. ‘’If he said our public schools are so good then they should be good enough for his own son, right?’’

But my Mr Taxi-driver seems quite fair. Despite his raves and rants, he mentioned how he appreciates the health care system here. One does not pay a single euro for medical treatment, he said.

Very soon we arrived at my studette and he said it was in a nice ‘’chic’’ area, something about Boulevard Hausemann and how he admired the Baron…. He helped carry my luggage all the way to the door and pointed out the door buttons where I had to enter the code.

We exchanged au revoir’s and well wishes. As I turned away to struggle with the door code in the cold, my heart felt very warmed by the pleasant encounter. To most people, it may be just a casual conversation, but to me, it was a nice welcome to a foreign city. Sure, every city has taxi-drivers. This taxi-driver reminded me he is human, an individual (and not to be ‘’generalised’’), and despite his hard work to raise his daughter, he managed to be cheerful, friendly and made me very welcome. I silently wished Mr Taxi-driver and his Bianca every happiness, and a very bright future ahead.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

A Very Different Barcelona


The telecom show of the industry - the largest and most prestigious - 3GSM Congress, is held in the heart of Barcelona, at La Fira convention centre.

The hotel I have been booked and am staying in, is in another little town, located inside an industrial park, by the highway, in a no-man’s land, 20 km from the event venue.

To get there, one has to walk more than 10 minutes to the train station, (which is tucked inconspicuously in a deserted car park), via a tour of the quiet little village of Sant Andreu de la Barca, and then take a 30 minute train ride.

I discovered this on my arrival on Sunday and tried in vain to change hotel. No luck. The entire Barcelona has been booked out. My secretary had booked my hotel since last October (read – it was not last minute) – but she had a bizarre sense of ‘’reality’’, plus she had overly trusted the company’s useless travel agent … and since I do not micro-manage her and had also overly trusted her….

And so I spent this morning crossing over huge treacherous roads at a huge roundabout which had early morning peak traffic of on-coming traffic whooshing past from all four corners of the roundabout. It was worse than crossing the roads of Vietnam. At least in Vietnam you it was only two way streets and I could still close my eyes, stick out a hesitant foot and then begin to cross. (And when you open your eyes, you would have ended at the other end of the road.)

Not to mention I had to untangle myself from the maze of industrial buildings spouting smoke from giant chimneys and trucks spouting fumes before I found an exit to the main road.

The scene is not far from that of Gemenos – I used to stay at the cosy little Kyriad hotel just opposite the industrial park at Gemenos, facing my Gemplus office and factory in the South of France. I used to get hopelessly lost in ‘’my’’ own humongous industrial park and could not find the entrance to ‘’my’’ own office too, and had to get the security guards to bail me out, at the same time trying to understand their Southern accent. Who says working for a French company is all Paris and glamour?!

So, this morning, conscious of the fact that I was going to be late for my meeting at the trade show, I reminded myself to be unruffled and to keep calm while searching for the train station.

‘’Remember to be graceful and classy at all times – money can buy you a lot of things but not grace and class,’’ I chanted the mantra to myself as I marched confidently in my high heel boots. Yes, don’t I look elegant in my boots and long warm navy blue coat, despite the cold, I told myself. I used to hate this huge ‘’clumsy’’ coat and did not want to wear it despite the cold in Perugia… all because I had thought that it made me – well, huge.

Yet now, it seems to give me an air of elegance and confidence. Picture a lone, well-dressed woman click-clocking briskly in her heels in a deserted industrial park trying to cross the roads… no wonder I received curious stares from the workers there. Oh well, I am used to it. I used to receive such stares and whistles in Gemenos too – more intense stares and even louder whistles than other visitors – all because I am an oriental in a macho Southern French land.

The more challenging it was to cross the wide busy roads, the more I had to wait… the more resolved I was to remain unruffled and stonily calm. So calm, so distant, so polished, so unperturbed, so cold-blooded, so untouchable.

What a completely different image my French colleagues have of me. The minute I made it to our exhibition booth, they shouted ‘’hey, bonjour, hola’’ and hugged and bisou-ed me. Franck stopped his phone conversation mid-air to greet me and said excitedly into the phone, ‘’attend, Janet est la…’’

My boss Remi and I chatted for a bit and he said something which I did not ‘’expect’’ to hear. We were staring at all the people at the trade show and he commented, almost apologetically to me, ‘’it’s such a male dominated industry, it must be boring for you.’’ I gave him a quizzical look (a subtle raised eyebrow - the Parisian way) and he continued, ‘’look – it’s all men here, there should be more women to add some colour.’’

Funny, I had never realised the men outnumbered the women! Either I am blind, or I view them as ‘’sexless’’. I mean – whether you are a man or a woman, it is not important, as long as you can do the job.

But very soon I began to ‘’feel’’ Remi’s comments. The show was getting really crowded and it was a big challenge moving within the exhibition halls. An impossible wall of dark colours (men in dark jackets) blocked me wherever I went. When I tried to move forward, ‘’whack’’ I got smacked on the left shoulder by a huge man. ‘’Thwack’’ I got another hit on my right shoulder. And I thought I am tall and strong! These huge ang mohs really towered over me and hurt my shoulders.

Still, I managed to survey the exhibition booths put up by other telco companies. Gosh – I have been in the telecom industry for more than 10 years, and they are still talking about the same old things today – convergence, ARPU, interoperability.

Sure, some things have changed. I remember the telco operators used to encourage voice calls and discourage (rather, they did not promote it, though the technology was available then) sms – all because they wanted to earn the higher revenue that voice calls generated. Now, they promote sms aggressively and it has become a way of life and has drastically changed the social and even working scenes.

I am not sure if the sms phenomenon is a good thing. Robert and I have our endless debates about its evils and virtues. He is more positive – sms allows shy people to say loving messages that they would otherwise not express face to face or over a call, he said. Ya, right, I would counter - it also allows cowards to say nasty things, yell and relay bad news over the sms! Heck – in Indonesia, one could even divorce one’s spouse via sms!

As for convergence, we had to explain and do a demo to Damien, a Singapore journalist. Poor guy. He simply could not understand the heavy French accent of my colleague Jean-Marc and kept turning to me each time he encountered a ‘’strange’’ sentence. I became a ‘’translator’’ – not French to English, but more like, ‘’French-accent English’’ to ‘’Singapore-accent English’’. I felt like a parrot, repeating what Jean-Marc had to explain.

Jean Marc went on and on very fast – ‘’generate temporary security key over-the-air, or-pare-ha-teur can have control, don-load bah-sic applet…’’

Damien had to look at me – the ‘’transla-teur’’. I tried to explain, ‘’its: operator can have control, download basic applet…’’

With all the tech jargons swimming in my head, the non-stop music of our demo video playing (‘’it’s engraved in my DNA’’, Franck grumbled), and my back aching from full day of standing at the booth, I still managed to go for a long tedious meeting on the branding of my new ‘’soon-to be merged’’ company with my boss and ‘’the other company’’.

And there is more to come. More journalist meetings at our demo and booth, and one more meeting on the new branding on my last day here, just before my departure.

And after that, I will have a very, very different memory of Barcelona!