I won’t recap the whole post here – you can scroll down and read it if you like – but to cover the highlights, I’d realized how being laid off was as much of a blessing as a curse in many ways. I’d not enjoyed my job for some time and felt like continuing with what I’d been doing may yield the same result. I was researching ways to move into photography.

Well, several months have passed, and I’ve really had a chance to decompress a bit to step back and look at things with a fresh eye, and my conclusions are different now than they were then. During those months I’ve come to realize that my earlier concerns about continuing the career path I’ve worked so long on really weren’t that at all. See, my last job was with a great company, with a great product – one which I could get very excited about – and a lot of potential. And, while all of that may seem ideal – as it should have been – the reality is that none of those things really mattered. They didn’t matter because we were lacking a key ingredient: customers. Well, more specifically, sales prospects. As a result, my job evolved into driving two to three hours a day (round-trip) to an office where most days duties could be summed up as simply “look busy”. And anyone who knows me knows that I can’t stand the monotony of trying to look busy 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. Difficult problems that make me want to pull my hair out? Great! Insane hours on a tough deadline? Bring it on! Last minute emergency runs to the airport to put out a fire somewhere? Fantastic! Agonizing over every word of speech to make sure I am conveying exactly the message I want to? Sweet! All of things are what make going to work interesting. Sitting at a desk for seemingly countless hours trying to figure out how to keep from nodding off? Um, no.

But that is exactly where I found myself the majority of the last several months at my last job. Ironically, I’d gotten burned out not from too much work, but from a lack of it. And that really colored my opinions at the time of my last post. And so, as I contemplated and researched various inroads into the photography business I found myself wondering if turning a very fun hobby into a career was smart. Don’t get me wrong, I think it would be a viable business still – at least if the economy picks up a little – but would having to shoot specific places repeatedly, and on a fixed schedule, suck all the joy out of taking pictures? Perhaps. But, more importantly, I began to realize that I really did still love the jobs I’ve already had. Once I got some distance from the office dronery I’d found myself in, the fog began to lift. I think it is a bit like getting out of a relationship that was bad, and that had been that way for some time; you just really aren’t interested in dating for a while, ya know? And I had that epiphany as I tore apart and rebuilt my network three times in as many months. Nothing was wrong with it, mind you, I just decided to flatten it out some and drop a switch or two. Then I decided that putting my IPS in a different place might yield more interesting information. Then I realized I was having a blast… hmmm…

That was about two weeks ago. I started putting out calls to a few recruiters to see what was cooking in the industry with the economy like it is, and found that there were jobs out there, just not as many and not as often. I told them to keep me in mind if anything interesting crossed their desk. Late that week I got an unsolicited call from a recruiter I’d never talked to – but with a firm that I had – that sounded more like an exploratory call in the message. When I returned her call I was shocked as she described a job that sounded to me as though it were written specifically to match my resume. I forwarded her my current resume, and we chatted again. She sent it to the powers that be at the company she was representing, and the very next day I had a phone interview with the guy who would be my boss were I hired. He seemed to be a really nice – and very bright – guy and I believe it went pretty well. There were some areas he asked me about that I wasn’t as up to speed as I wish I were, but they were both questions I could ramp up on very quickly. More importantly, they weren’t things I claimed to know on my resume. In fact, I’d not even made mention of either of the topics, in spite of the slight involvement I’d had with each of them a few years back. I was thanking God that I don’t pad my resume. That would have been awkward. In any case, I think the call went pretty well overall, and I find myself suddenly itching to get back in the saddle and leave the last job behind. It is WAY too early in the process to make any predictions about how this will turn out, but I’m feeling pretty good about my chances so far.

I guess the bottom line of this rambling post is this: Since my last post, I’ve gone from wondering what I wanted to do, to realizing I wanted to do just what I’ve always done. Seems like that should have been obvious to me, yes? And I’m talking to a company that intrigues me greatly. Oh, and as an added bonus I happened to have lunch scheduled on Friday with an old colleague of mine who is one of the best sales guys I’ve ever known. I discovered at lunch that he was looking to make a move and I’d already learned the company I was talking to was looking for a sales guy. Oh, and they are in almost the exact same market space as I was in when I worked with this guy. Together, we’d pulled in over 12 million in sales from a major carrier, with another 7 million in maintenance over the next three years. Not bad for a two man team. And now I am facing the prospect that we might be able to put the team back together. I hope to have another interview this week. Keeping my fingers crossed that they are everything they seem to be, and that they decide that I am as well. It would be nice to get back in front of customers and get back in up to my elbows in something technical and hopefully difficult. THAT would make me a happy camper. Keep your fingers crossed. I know I am!

/g

I was reminded by a certain blog stalker – you know who you are – that I sort of left things at an intersection with my last post. Well, technically I was reminded by my wife because she was reminded by said blog stalker, but I digress. Regardless of how I came to find out that I’d inadvertently created a cliffhanger, I felt I would be remiss in not correcting it. I rarely consider that anyone other than me reads this – and am still more than a little surprised. Mea Culpa.

In the original post, I said that I was to learn my fate that Friday. As luck would have it, no decision was finalized on Friday, so I got to spend the weekend wondering where the following week would leave me. Fun, fun! Yay. I went in Monday morning and the president of the company was in meetings until mid-morning when I finally couldn’t stand it anymore. I set up covert surveillance on his office so that I could “casually” happen by at the right moment between meetings. A little after ten thirty, that opportunity came for me to pop my head in his office and ask what the word was. His response was a rushed “I’m late for a call, can I come get you in a little while?” I said he could, but I already had my answer. Good news is easily delivered in a three second span; bad news requires a little more room to stretch out in. It was almost five before he found the time to confirm what I already knew, but I’d already emptied my desk a few items at a time over lunch – I wasn’t really very hungry – and throughout the afternoon. He said that I could remain until Friday – putting me into the next pay period, which is good – and transition my accounts to those who would be taking them over. And, ironically, I was to deliver a speech to the Greenville, SC ISSA chapter on Friday – and they’d specifically requested me because, when I spoke there last year it reviewed really well – so it was a win-win. I still had some last minute work to do on the presentation – like, you know, creating it – that I’d planned to do this week anyway so I told him I’d be completing it from home between my scheduled meetings. Who wants to be dead man walking all week, huh? I mean, I was OK, but I can’t stand the looks of awkward discomfort and attempted nonchalance from everyone when you pass in the hall.

The truth is, this whole thing is a bit of a mixed bag for me. I’ve not enjoyed my job for many months now, and some days almost couldn’t bear the though of going in. Don’t get me wrong, my job wasn’t bad – at least the one I was hired to do – but I didn’t often get to do it; for months, I’ve found myself in the office doing busy work far more hours than I’d have imagined possible, and I’ve never done well with either of those (office time or busy work) if they go on for too long. I am far too ADD to handle it. In fact, the guy who hired me called when, after several days, I had not made a decision on the job offer he’d made. He asked if there was some concern that he might be able to address. The one concern I had was that I didn’t want a commute and a desk job – I hadn’t done that bit in years, and I had no desire to return to it. I want to be in front of the customer. That is where I am most useful, and where I am most engaged in my job. He incorrectly assured me that the office was not where he expected I would be spending much of my time. The bitter irony is that, my last week was spent doing exactly the job I was hired to do. I had more hours with potential and existing clients than I’d had for the previous four or five weeks combined. Isn’t that always how it goes, though?

And the week ended with my speech in Greenville – my swan song, as it were – which was a little strange. I walked up to the lectern an employee of Stonesoft – to stand and deliver their message to a big room full of people – and walked away from it unemployed. I wouldn’t say I was upset by it, per se, but I was most certainly affected. If you’ve ever found yourself dating someone that you realize you are indifferent about at best – but they dump you before you get around to dumping them – then you have an inkling of how I felt. There wasn’t enough of an attachment there to cause any really strong emotional reaction – and there was an element of relief in it – but my snow globe has been well and truly shaken just the same. My play list on the way home was dominated by tunes by Seether, and Muse, and the like but, the song that most resonated with me was The Resolution by Jack’s Mannequin. It somehow fits.

I’ve had a number of friends call me up to “just check in.” I’ve been quite touched by it, actually. Many of them have attempted to prop up my self esteem from the inevitable blow it must have taken but, the truth is, that’s a little like trying to convert The Pope to Catholicism. Yeah, I am actually that arrogant. xP Seriously, though, I am very good at what I do and I have the work history and shelf full of awards I’ve won from my last several jobs for consistently exceeding expectations, to prove it. I don’t think that is arrogant to say – though the larger question of my arrogance still remains, I suppose – but I think it is disingenuous to show false modesty too. I mean, I’ve been in the pursuit of the field I’m in, in one form or another, for what has just past 30 years – or 3/4 of my life – so I certainly would hope I’ve developed a level of proficiency to be good at what I do.

The thing is, though, that all only matters from the bigger picture perspective; a closer examination would reveal that I’ve been mailing it in at work for far too long – and I’ve hardly been able to stand myself for it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been doing my job, but only the minimum required of me, with the exception of the few parts of it that I particularly enjoyed (the more challenging ones). That sort of existence quickly relegates you to office drone status, though, and I’ve never been able to live with the monotony of that sort of existence. Some days I felt I was in danger of my brain gnawing its way out, and taking off on its own to find something more interesting to do. And, honestly, I’m not sure it wouldn’t be the same anywhere else I might end up, and that concerns me more than a little.

So it is, that I find myself at a crossroads, of sorts. I find myself wondering if keeping on the same path is the right thing to do or not. If you did the math in the above paragraph, you’ll see that I’ve basically been working on or toward this career since my age was still in the single digits. Later on, at a time in life when many of my peers where trying to decide what they wanted to do with their lives, I was already working contract programming jobs for Fort Benning. I’ve simply never had to wonder or consider, so all of this is very foreign to me. I’ve just never stopped to consider that I might actually end up doing something different.

But, for years I’ve dreamt of making my living in photography. The problem with that is that most photographers make very little money. Depending on the surveys you read they make between a quarter and a third of what I do based on median incomes. Yeah, that little. There are a few statistical outliers, as with any typical distribution, but most of the really successful ones were commercial photographers, and that isn’t really what I want to do. Product shots? Boring. I make a fair little supplemental income from teaching photography at The Showcase School, but there isn’t really any way to increase that. Even if I did, it wouldn’t be much of a living. And doing portraits and the like isn’t the kind of thing you can be instantly profitable at overnight. It usually takes years to build up to an even moderate income. What I really enjoy doing is travel photography, but getting a job doing that is almost unheard of; most musicians stand a better chance of making it in their field. There are only a few full time positions available globally and hordes of people are clamoring to fill them; most of them more talented than me by far.

But, while I was pondering that, my mind wandered to some travel shots taken by one of my students last session. And I realized that she was off on a photo vacation right now. Then I stopped to consider that I was planning a photo vacation to Utah in October. And I started riffling through my mental notes and realized that I’d heard quite a number of people from the school mention trips whose primary purpose was photography. And all of that got me wondering about that particular market. My research has turned up thus-far that there are quite a few businesses offering just such vacations. You pay them a fee that ranges from several hundred to several thousand dollars – depending on the duration of the trip, the amenities included and the company offering it – and you get to go on one of their trips. They are usually small groups – usually eight or fewer people – at some fixed date. What you get for the money is someone who has planned the trip and will have you at all the appropriate landmarks at the times when the lighting is best for you to get a good shot. And, while you are there, you have an experienced guide walking around helping you with framing and composition advice as well as answering technical questions about things like aperture, shutter speed, filter selection, etc. Some even include photography classes between shooting sessions. Since most of the photography takes place at sunrise or sunset, that leaves a lot of room to work things in.

All of that got me thinking. If I’m good at nothing else, I excel at teaching photography, and I am absolutely fanatical at planning photo shoots. On those trips of my own to exotic places, I’ve already figured out sunrise and sunset times as well as the sun’s azimuth (direction) at each of the locations I want to shoot and already have a list of times I need to be at certain places to get the shots I want. I am nothing like the worlds best photographer – or even particularly inspired, for that matter – but I could SO do these trips. So I started thinking more about how I might market them to make what I had to offer any different than what was already out there. I’m beginning to work out a rough idea, including offering camera classes in the morning session, say, and Photoshop in an afternoon one. Participants could come home with a good working knowledge of landscape photography, and a good handle on Photoshop, plus a bunch of good photos to show for the trip. And, if you can put a reasonable number of butts in the seats, you can make a good living at it and – more importantly – I would once again be at a place where I love my job.

I’m still not anywhere near done with my research, so I can’t say for sure if it is something I’m going to pursue, and Christy is less than enthusiastic about it at this point, but who knows. Only time will tell. I’ll keep researching it, but I will continue with my traditional job search as well. If I’m meant to get a normal job, I will. We shall see. So that is where I am. I’m in a reasonably good mood, and am curious to see what the future will bring. For now, I’ll just keep on keeping on and pray to be pointed in the right direction. Not much more I can do…

/g

You see, not unlike other businesses, my company has been hit pretty hard by the economic downturn. The flow of customers has been significantly less than usual, and among those we are still engaged with, many have postponed projects we were bidding on – in some cases indefinitely. And, since America led this particular economic crash, we were among the earliest and hardest hit. As a consequence, the numbers for the Americas have been way off for several quarters and are continuing to slide a bit, even now. Unfortunately, the company is based corporately in Europe, and they call the shots. This Tuesday they exercised that power most auspiciously when the CEO arrived from Finland and set about having closed door meeting in the training room, rather than the much more centrally located conference room. When it was announced that we should make no lunch plans, as they would be bringing in lunch for an all hands meeting, the already high tension level in the office went off the charts. It is safe to say that pretty much no work got done that morning. And so it was that we all filed into the conference room around 1pm to learn that the president of the Americas – the head cheese here, and the guy who brought me on – had “resigned”. Resigned, of course, being nice speak for fired, but with a severance package for going quietly.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. The winds of change were still swirling, and pretty much everyone felt it. I heard a couple of people wonder aloud when “the other shoe was going to drop.” I should back up here and tell you that we’d already cut one of the two dedicated sales guys in the Atlanta office (where I work) a couple of months back. Unfortunately that left us with two supporting engineers – me being one of those – supporting one sales guy. Being a fairly savvy mathematician, I was able to work out the implications of that pretty quickly. And, where myself and my counterpart are concerned, there was a bit of a balancing act. I was the public speaker of the two of us, but – being that he married a Brazilian girl and learned Portuguese – he is the sole interface to our operations in Brazil. Unfortunately, we have another engineer out of our DC office who also can handle speaking engagements, leaving me at a decided disadvantage. Add to that the fact that am older and have been in this business longer than my counterpart, so I carry a higher price tag, and, well… You do the math.

So it was that I was feeling those winds of change perhaps more acutely than the others in the office. Today I got that tap on the shoulder that I’ve been anticipating for some time now. Just at quitting time the newly promoted acting president popped his head in and asked if he could talk to me in his office. The only upside of the long period of anticipation is that I’d had time to make peace with the situation so I wasn’t completely freaked out. The word I got from him wasn’t quite what I was expecting, but probably close enough. He told me that, before he left to go back to Finland, the CEO had told him to drop the engineering headcount – meaning me and perhaps one other engineer from another group. Given that training time for my position is something upward of six months before any new hire is truly useful, and that the newly minted president feels we are on the cusp of turning things around, he pushed back. It was still an open discussion with the CEO when he departed. The conclusion of that conversation will happen this Friday. My gut tells me that the CEO will not be swayed, but I’m hoping I am wrong. Just the same, mentally, I am already in job hunting mode.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell anyone that this economy isn’t the best environment in which to find yourself looking for work; particularly in a highly specialized position, such as the one that I occupy. There are lots of good people who have lost their jobs and are available, so it is a buyers market. For years now, I’ve not gone “job hunting” as such. I get multiple calls a week from headhunters, and I keep a list of their names – just in case. My last four job changes were all orchestrated by those same recruiters. Unfortunately, this is such a buyer’s market that many companies have stopped using the outside recruiters at all. Why pay twenty to thirty thousand dollars to a recruiter for placing someone when you can have 300 resumes in a day from a free online job posting? Because of that, in addition to the recruiters – who I will still use – I will also have to start calling on companies directly – something I haven’t done in perhaps 15 years. That, and I will activate the social network that one inevitably builds over so many years in an industry. I’ve got a great resume, so I’m not worried that I won’t be able to find a job, but I am concerned that I won’t be able to find one with the same salary I’m making now. Again, it is a buyer’s market. Economics 101 tells you that, when supply exceeds demand, the price of goods drops.

Even in a good economy a job search for my type position generally stretches to six or eight weeks at a minimum; in this economy, I can easily see it being more like 6 months. So it is that we are battening the hatches at home. We’ve been very blessed, so we are well situated to weather that or more if needed, but it is still demoralizing. I’ll almost certainly have to cancel my planned photo trip to SE Utah the I had slated for this October. I will either be unemployed or newly employed, neither of which allow for luxury trips. I think the biggest blow was to my ego. Even given the very logical justification, the fact remains, I’m being laid off. Only once in my career have I left a position involuntarily, and that was over twenty years ago – and over a petty political battle, at that. Oh well, life goes on, I suppose and, truth be told, my ego could probably use a body blow or two. After Friday I’ll have a more clear direction and will figure out my game plan. Until then, I’ll just lay here on this block and stare up warily at the axe hanging precariously above me. Oh, and I’ll try to get at least some work done too.

/g

So it is that we found ourselves in the City of Dunwoody Municipal Court. My first indicator that this was not going to be your normal court session was the fact that it was held in a rented ballroom in a conference center. The room was packed WELL beyond capacity, and there was no sound system so you basically couldn’t hear anything. The first person to come in and address the room was the prosecutor. Very odd. He proceeded to tell everyone in very thinly disguised language that when the time came to enter their plea they should ask for a pre-trial and come see him. He would work with you to see if a lesser charge could be worked out. Since this was simply an arraignment hearing you were only there to enter a plea, not actually stand trial. I thought his speech was exceedingly odd, considering most Prosecutors don’t exactly advertise. Based on the fact that the he’d all but guaranteed a lesser charge, it was no wonder that literally 9 out of 10 (or more) people requested a pre-trial. And at the bench (folding table) it was obvious that they were geared for just that. They obviously planned on virtually every case to skip actual court. That the judge didn’t manage his courtroom at all only added to the circus atmosphere. People were standing in the back carrying on full, animated conversations, no one ever stood, they just shouted out their plea from their seats, and of the 100+ people I heard address the judge I heard perhaps 3 or 4 use the phrase “your honor.” I suppose that is at least partly understandable considering I’m not sure he was actually old enough to shave. At one point a middle eastern gentleman – and I use that term loosely here – actually shouted out from the back row – right in the middle of the judge’s opening address to the room – telling him to “speak up.” No please, thank you nothing. He just shouted “Speak Up!!!” rather rudely.

So they call the names alphabetically (we are in the “M’s”, sigh) so we had some time to watch the proceedings. It quickly became evident that the prosecutor – an older, white haired guy – was actually the one running the show. At one point, someone plead guilty and the judge actually stopped him and asked “Guilty? Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather go see Mr (whatever the prosecutor’s name was)?” Um, wow. It did amuse me that some people plead guilty, since you can do that by mail rather than coming in and wasting your evening. My biggest chuckle of the night was the one person I saw actually plea not guilty. He was a youngish guy in a wife beater, covered with tattoos and hanging with a couple other guys, all flying matching colors. lol. Ummmm, ya, OK. Not guilty, got it. xP

So, when our time arrived, we asked for a pre-trial. We were ultimately herded off to a much smaller room which was now trying to hold the 90%+ of the crowd from the other room. It was, again, a circus. There were three prosecutors across the front of the room calling names out and talking to the people to make them an offer they couldn’t refuse. It was all very used car sales, if you know what I mean. It became obvious that they’d just split the stack up since one of the prosecutors was going alphabetically starting with A, another starting with H or so and the remaining one somewhere further down the alphabet. There was this one very annoying woman standing adjacent to us that kept protesting – loudly and indignantly – to no one in particular that they weren’t going in alphabetical order. She was obviously early in the alphabet. I finally got tired of hearing her complain – surely she wasn’t so stupid that she didn’t get why they were in the order they were in – so I patiently, and exceedingly politely, turned to her and explained that they were going in alphabetical order, but that each of them had a different portion of the stack. Her response? “Well, it ain’t right. We started this out alphabetically, they should keep it that way. I’m gon’ be here all night!” So, being the helpful person that I am, I politely pointed out that all of us had arrived at the same time and we would all like to go home. I even refrained from asking her why she thought she was so special (aren’t you proud?). That only drew a “whatever” as she bodily turned away from me. I just smiled and responded “whatever, indeed.” Another good deed done. She did stop complaining aloud, however, so I got what I wanted. I’m only mildly ashamed to admit that I took great delight in being called before her and leaving with her still standing there. I had to resist the urge to stop on the way out and say “M. My last name starts with an *M*. Buh-bye!” as I walked out past her. People like that really burn my biscuits.

So, anyway, back to the proceedings, the old guy – obviously in charge – was standing at a podium in the middle and obviously thought himself very funny, and he seemed to take great delight in embarrassing people. As this one guy he’d called approached him, he loudly said “Possession of marijuana, huh?” causing the whole room to titter, but I was horrified. To many other people he loudly explained what they’d done wrong, or responded mockingly to their proclamations of innocence, making sure the whole room heard it and heard his refusal to offer more than a minor concession.

But I did notice one thing odd: not once did they fail to offer some concession, no matter the charge. I’d also noticed that almost every traffic fine was the same – $189.00!! Failure to completely stop at a stop sign was even $189.00! Anywhere else that is a $30 or $40 fine tops. So, when we got up there – thankfully to one of the more civil prosecutors – and not the buffoon in the middle – Rachel calmly explained the circumstances of her situation. The prosecutor offered the same thing he’d offered pretty much everyone there – pay the fine, we don’t asses you points – and started writing it up before we’d even responded. I jumped in with, “No thanks. We’d like a court date. Jury trial, please.” He stopped writing and looked up and paused for a second before saying “OK, $150 and no points.” I reminded him that the lady ADMITTED it was her fault. No thanks. When is our court date? He countered with “$100, no points and reduce the charge to a rules violation.” I still wasn’t budging when he indicated that was as low as he was “allowed” to go. We told him we’d have to think about it and he passed our slip to the jerk in the middle while we did. I told Rachel that, were it me I would hold my nose and pay the fine; going to court is such a crap shoot and, if you lose, you get hit with the full $189.00 PLUS court costs PLUS the points which result in a *major* insurance hike. And if the woman DID come to testify, I’m certain she would not repeat that it was her fault. Oh, and she is pregnant, so she’d make a very sympathetic figure. Truth told, I doubt she’d show, and I suspect Rachel would win, but the stakes were just too high. Ultimately, she paid the $100 – well, I did for the moment – and we left. When we went up there to tell them we’d take the deal, the schmuck in the middle looked at it and said “what? He isn’t *supposed* to reduce my fines!” – and yes, he referred to them as *his* fines – before he signed it off and put it in the stack to be processed. I pointed out that, since she didn’t actually BREAK A LAW, they’d come out pretty OK in my book.

The whole experience left me with a very bad taste in my mouth and a VERY low opinion of the city of Dunwoody. What it amounted to was a huge game of “The Price Is Right.” Nothing in that entire proceeding was even remotely related to seeking actual justice. They obviously believed she didn’t do it to have backed off so far, but they didn’t dismiss it. They were all about keeping people from actually GOING to court and extorting money from them with scare tactics. I’ve never seen such a kangaroo court in a real town of any size. I thought that junk was reserved for little one red-light hick towns. Shows what I know.

So, anyhow, it would appear “justice” in Dunwoody, GA has a $100 cover charge. <sigh>

/g

39,000 feet this time, and somewhere over Oklahoma. You know, I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time lately in locations that need to be described like that – altitude and some city, state or body of water I am over. I have to be honest, the newness has long since worn off – many years ago – but I generally don’t mind it. Now would be the exception. I just want to be home.

I am coming off an odd sort of week, too. I stood a trade show booth most of the week in San Francisco at the RSA show. For those not familiar with the show, it is *the* show of the information security industry. Their tag line is “where the world talks security” and they aren’t exaggerating. I lost count of how many countries I saw represented there in the attendees I talked to. It is a big show, too. It fills the Moscone Convention Center in San Fran and has a draw approximating 20,000 people.

And, as for the title of this post, well, it is a bit of an inside joke, but it has to do with my activities today. I found out a few months ago that my speaking abstract submitted to the committee was accepted, and that I would be speaking there. For me, that is the big time. They receive several thousand abstracts and only select a hundred and change of them. I’m reminded of the old joke, How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, man, practice. And from the time I found out about it I was terrified on some level to be honest. I can stand in front of a couple hundred people, no problem. At that size crowd you are still close enough to “be with” the crowd, rather than being separated by a large stage and theatrical lights that prevent you from even seeing the crowd, much less connecting with it. When you start counting them in thousands, well, gulp. And, from the time I found I was going to be speaking there I joked with a couple of my friends that I would count the whole thing a success if I didn’t throw up while actually on stage. Oh, then I saw the schedule and discovered that I’d be on just before The Myth Busters of Discover Channel fame (and personal heroes of mine), albeit they would be opening the room dividers up for them. But being before them made it far more likely that I would have a large crowd.

Today’s story is long, so I won’t go into the gritty details, but I can summarize by saying that the day started with the discovery that housekeeping had evidently taken my only two undershirts that weren’t off at laundry when they changed my linens the day before – I’d laid them on the bed – since they blended with the white sheets.Then, I had a problem that kept me from getting there until less than 5 minutes before I was to walk on. Our marketing director was there assuring them I was going to be there so they weren’t freaking out. I had to run the last several blocks too – in shirt, tie and coat, no less – so I arrived winded and sweating profusely. Yeah, cause I wasn’t apprehensive enough before. I spent those couple of minutes drinking water and doing my best to settle down. I was wearing this really pretty pale green shirt – one of my very favorite ones – but it is one of those materials that turns drastically darker when it gets wet. So there I am, praying (literally) that I don’t end up with a dark ring around the collar. Thankfully this is a talk I’ve given literally dozens of times – or at least some variant of it – so I was comfortable with the material. Then it was time, and I walked in and surprisingly felt completely fine. And – AND – I didn’t throw up! I got great reviews based on the few I saw – all attendees are given sheets at every session to evaluate the speaker for delivery and content – and lots of people wanted to talk to me more about it after – always a good sign. It was really a nothing event in the end, and it does look good on the resume, so it was a win-win, I suppose.

Just the same, phew! I’m so glad to be done with all of it, but I am even more glad to be heading home. I miss my family. I can’t wait to kiss the wife and give the little ones a big squish! The much sought after badge with the green speaker’s ribbon at the bottom, and the show program – with me in it – will go into a drawer a keepsakes, and life will move on. Incidentally, I did meet Bruce Schnier – enough of a legend in my industry that there are Bruce Schnier jokes like those about Chuck Norris. If you don’t know who he is, don’t bother to look them up; you won’t get them. You can look up the Chuck Norris ones for a good laugh, though. My faves are “Superman wears Chuck Norris pajamas to bed” and “Before going to bed, he boogeyman checks under his bed and in his closet for Chuck Norris.” Anyway, I digress. I did get to say hi to Adam Savage (one of the Myth Busters!!!) and saw Jamie Hyneman (the other one) from just a few feet away, but he was talking to someone. So, yeah, afterglow.  =o)

Anyhow, so we got held at the gate for 30 minutes because the wind had closed all but one runway at SFO so we are way behind. I’ve passed most of the flight so far making eyes at a girl across the aisle that I met at the airport in SF. She is so cute I just can’t help it. Her sister is cute too, but no where near as cute as her. She has beautiful blue eyes and a great laugh. Been making faces at her too – she is 10 months old, and a little doll. =oP We’ve been entertaining each other. The jerk next to me is too busy grousing about someone bringing babies into first class – how dare they, huh? – that I don’t think he has noticed how cute she is. His loss. I’ve been writing this between goofy faces, in fact. I would ask to hold her but I don’t wanna put her parents in an awkward position.

Anyhow, she reminds me how bad I want to see my little ones. As we near ATL I am getting progressively more excited. Almost home! There is the ding, in fact. Gotta run!

/g

As I start this post, I am 35,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean, on my way home from Paris. According to the moving map we are about an hour East of Halifax still which means we are, ummm… lets see… divide distance by velocity… carry the one… annnnnnd… about two more whole days from landing in Atlanta. I’m not 100% positive of the math, but I’m reasonably sure. Given that we’ve been in flight for about three days (again, that is just an estimate) and we are a little over half way, it makes sense. Thank God for noise cancelling headsets.

I’ve had a most inauspicious start to my trip home so far today. As I was getting ready to leave my hotel I looked at the time and realized that taking the train to the airport as I’d planned might cut me closer than I would like on time. The train ride should be about 40-45 minutes, but involves two train changes that are a pain with luggage, and that can add unexpected delays to the trip. So I decided to take a taxi instead just to be safe. It is a lot more expensive, but around a 30 minute trip. So off I go to the lobby to check out and have them call me a cab. After I finally got the desk clerk to appreciate that I was in a hurry, I was able to get him to call my cab before continuing with the small talk. Around 20 minutes later the cab still hadn’t shown and I was finally able to convince the clerk to call them again. Another 10 minutes passed and the cab shows up. So much for saving time by using a cab. <sigh>. About half way to the airport, traffic ground to a halt. Someone had quite inconsiderately had an accident on the road I needed to be on to get to CDG. After sitting there for over a half an hour we were again under way. Me missing my flight had just become a very real possibility.

I finally arrive at the airport with just under an hour until flight time. I rush in to the airport to check in and hit the first set of Air France counters I find. If you’ve not checked in for a flight at Charles de Gaulle airport, it is quite an experience. They have many different sets of check-in counters and each set handles specific flights, so you have to first figure out which set of counters you should be at. The set I happened upon was number two. The agents posted at the entrance of the queue asked me where I was going then told me I needed to go down to six. Since these are spread down the length of the terminal, the walk from two to six was not insignificant. It seemed even longer given my mounting apprehension at missing my flight. I got to six and told them where I was heading, and they told me I needed to go to two. If you are keeping close track, you’ll have recognized that two is where I’d JUST been. I ran back down to two and told them that six had said they were idiots and that I should have been at two all along (OK, not in those exact words, but mainly because I don’t know how to say idiot in French) and they let me in the line. I got to the security people mid-line (their equivalent of our homeland security people) and told them where I was off to and when. They looked surprised and asked if I was going to be able to get on that flight still. Coincidentally enough, I was hoping for an answer to that very same question. After conversing with the gate agent they determined that I would not, in fact, be able to make that flight. It had closed during the time I was ping-ponging between two and six. They sent me to the Delta ticket counter (it was a Delta operated flight) that was way down past one (the opposite direction from where I’d last been sent). After waiting in line, a nice lady looked me up in the computer and told me that, since I was flying on an Air France ticket, I would need to go to the Air France ticket counter that was – you guessed it – way down past six. Once there and waiting through line, I found myself at the counter of a supremely disinterested ticket agent. From the amount of typing he did, and the amount of time it took him, I was beginning to suspect he was actually just IM chatting with the agent next to him – who was also typing furiously – about ze stupid Americans, but I may just be projecting my insecurities; can’t tell for sure. Anyway, he finally looked up and told me that he could rebook me but that I’d have to pick up a 150 Euro ($200) fare difference. Given that I just wanted to get home, I didn’t argue. Then he tells me that I will be on the 8:30 am flight tomorrow… wait, what?!?!? He said that he would need to move me to tomorrow since the only flight from Atlanta to Tampa (my final destination) that departed late enough for me to make was booked solid. It was a Delta operated flight as well, by the way. I managed to convince him that, if I had to wait overnight somewhere I’d prefer to do it in Atlanta where, you know, I live. He was able to move me to the 4:10 pm flight to Atlanta, but still had me on an 8:30 am flight to Tampa the next morning.

I paid the annoying little man, and headed back down to the Delta counter to see if they could help me out. I have status with them and thought I’d try to leverage it. How important i would feel if I could pull that off, eh?  =oP  The nice lady at the Delta counter looked up the Tampa flight in question and informed me that it was not even close to full. There were at least 10 seats open on it. Unfortunately, she was unable to make any changes to my ticket for the same reasons as before so, back to the Air France counter I go. After some digging there the agent told me that seats in my class fare were sold out. If I wanted to be booked for one of the seats that were open, she’d have to upgrade my fare class for the low low price of around 600 Euros. Yeah. To save you the math, that equates to almost exactly $800 US. I could charter a light aircraft flight to Tampa for about $100 more than that! I honestly was considering calling the FBO in Atlanta to see if they had any small aircraft there that were available to rent for the week so I could just fly myself and be done with it. Sheesh. And, no, by the way, she couldn’t put me on standby for the flight since it was a Delta flight. So, once again, I made the trip back down to the Delta desk to see what they could do for me. The Delta rep rolled her eyes and shook her head when I told her what Air France had said, then she put me on standby for the Tampa flight. At least now I had a chance of getting home tonight.

As I went through security to check in for my new flight I discovered that the French have a thing about large shoes, it would seem. Pretty much every French official in any capacity I ran into had me take off my shoes. And I’m pretty sure one of them was actually just a skycap who was bored, but I don’t read French well enough to be sure what his nametag said. It seems that the standard French airport greeting is “Bonjour monsieur. May I ‘ave your shoes please?” Three times in one check-in. There was the ‘pre-screening guy’ before the actual security checkpoint, the actual security guys, then the security guy actually at the gate, who was doing random checks as you started to board; all three of them made me take them off. Since I seemed to be the only one getting this special treatment, I finally asked to what I owed the honor. I was told that since my shoes were large, they wanted to check them. I’m not sure what that means. I’m reasonably certain a size 9 chock full of C-4 could blow up a plane just as easily as a size 16, but what do I know? To make matters worse, I was wearing hiking boots (more on why in a moment). You know, the ones that you have to fully unlace the top half of each time you want to remove them? edit: when I got to Atlanta they made me take them off again in the security screening area you have to pass upon entering the country. Sheesh. Next time, I’m wearing flip-flops.

But, aside from my rather interesting trip home, the rest of the time in Paris was pretty cool. I walked somewhere in the neighborhood of 30-35 miles during my time there – which is why I elected to wear hiking boots. Each day I would set out before sunrise and take some early morning pictures then wander around and shoot until mid to late morning. Then I’d go back to the hotel and nap for an hour or two before heading back out in the middle of the afternoon to take some more pictures. I would wander around, stopping for the occasional photo until well past midnight before heading back to the hotel. Somewhere in the midst of all of that I would work in dinner at one of the approximately 14,000,000 restaurants in Paris.

Both my camera and I enjoyed the alone time for most of the trip. I’ve travelled for business for long enough that travelling alone doesn’t bother me like it once did, with one exception: dinner time. Particularly in places like Paris, where you are seemingly the only one there that is not with someone else. I guess it is because dinner time is the only time where I am stripped of my diversions and am left to just sit there and stare stupidly at the passing crowds while waiting for my food – and in Paris, that is often a very long wait. As I’ve probably said before, for me, at least, there is something infinitely more lonely about being among thousands of strangers than actually being alone.

I had several days and nights that were pretty much uneventful. I wandered around soaking in the city and taking the occasional photo, but there was nothing out of the ordinary; at least not until the last night there. That night was rather eventful. For starters, I got a pleasant reprieve from the dreaded dinner time solitude. I was sitting in the outside seating area of a quaint little bistro and had just ordered my food. They’d sat me at a six place table and, since there were two seat tables available, I suspect they were just trying to emphasize my aloneness but, again, I may be projecting. Anyway, so there I was, trying to come up with names for my four new imaginary friends required to fill the empty seats, when a boisterous group of teenagers descended on the cafe. They were all wearing matching shirts – clearly they were some kind of tour group. As they filtered into the open tables several of them remained standing because they’d filled all the available seats. Seeing their predicament, I offered to vacate my table so the rest of them could sit down; I could just eat inside. They were appreciative and said that I needn’t go inside if I didn’t mind them just sharing the table. For the reasons I mentioned above, it occurred to me that it might be a pleasant diversion. And it was. They were from just outside London and were there for a few more days. Four of the youth and one of the chaperones joined me and it made the meal much more enjoyable. They were fresh and funny and, well, I would happily listen to someone read the phonebook if they did it with a British accent.  =oP

I mentioned in the last post that being in a country like Finland, where the language is radically different, is more disconcerting. Little did I know when I wrote that that, every now and again, being able to decipher the language a bit is more disconcerting. Such was the case that night. I was at Notre Dame Cathedral at a bit past midnight taking some photos when I heard a couple of police cars stop pretty close by. I wasn’t so concerned, though, since the police had been pretty active all evening responding to rowdy teens and such. So I kept on shooting. Imagine my surprise when I finally wrapped up and headed for the metro stop only to discover that the police had stopped on the road that defines the back end of the square in front of the cathedral. But the police cars really weren’t so much what interested me as the large red very official looking truck. I’d had headphones in listening to music most of the time so I guess I’d missed that additional vehicles had shown up. It didn’t take a linguist to determine that the large words on the side of it said that they were a chemical and radioactive materials unit. Hmmm… So I was watching with mounting interest (and apprehension) when another truck pulled up. It was also large and red, but I couldn’t decipher the writing on it – which was no big deal since they were towing a most recognizable bomb containment vessel and the men who got out were dressed in rather bulky, cumbersome clothing. Now I was really curious about what was up. Not being dumb, however, I decided to be curious from a little further away. But I wasn’t so far away that, when the truck marked Central Laboratory (in French, of course) showed up I couldn’t decipher it. and along the way a few more police vehicles showed up. So they now had, in American terms, perhaps half a dozen police cars, HAZMAT, the bomb squad and CSI on the scene. None of them were moving in any particular hurry, which I found comforting in a way until I realized they were French. They tend to be like that all the time. And my money says that, had it been lunch time, they would have thrown up some yellow tape and gone to have lunch. Anyhow, coincidentally, at about the same time I really registered the mix of vehicles there and the potential implications, I also decided at that the Eiffel Tower – which is well over a mile away – really needed to be photographed. Right then. I was still curious, but I was beginning to think there was some truth in that old saw about curiosity killing, and not just cats.

I got to the tower a few minutes later and took a couple of cute pictures with Burple and Boop (Courtney’s and Justin’s stuffed animals). Just as I was finishing them a wind came up from nowhere. Within seconds it was strong enough to blow over trash cans and anything else not tied down. It was odd, but not the end of the world. A few moments later, however, it started to rain. The drops were approximately the size of cantaloupes, and there were lots of them, so I quickly stowed my bag and yanked out the bag’s rain tarp and the pocket umbrella I keep in there all the time. It keeps you head dry at least. Thank goodness I was wearing waterproof hiking boots. The wind was still strong enough that it took all my effort to keep the umbrella from flipping inside out. As the few hundred people still milling about bolted for cover and the metro, I gathered my gear and wandered that way. I hopped the train back to the area of my hotel since it was not exactly pleasant weather for a stroll.

I got off the train with several dozen people and headed for the street. As I headed out into the rain, umbrella in hand, I noticed a very young girl – perhaps 13 or 14 – standing just inside the cover of the metro. Everything about her, from her immaculate hair to her too formal (and rather expensive looking) clothes, down to her small heels suggested she’d been at some formal event. She was balefully staring out into the rain and it occurred to me that she was probably waiting for it to let up before going out into it. I’d watched the weather earlier that evening and knew that the rain was not likely to let up for hours. It had arrived earlier than predicted, but the radar images had shown a substantial squall line when I’d seen it. So, I trekked back in and asked her if she was OK and if she had far to go. Her English was bad, and my French non-existent, and she was understandably a bit apprehensive, so it was a bit of effort to determine that she was, indeed, waiting for the rain to let up. Evidently she had a reasonably long way to go. I offered her my umbrella, which she initially wouldn’t accept because she had no money to pay me for it. It was really sweet, actually. I couldn’t figure out how to convey that it was only worth a couple of Euro and I really didn’t need money for it. Finally I just sorta pushed it into her hand and stepped away, waving. She finally smiled and said thank you before heading out. Last I saw her she was heading down the street, presumably toward home. I’d love to know where she’d been and why a girl so young was out alone so late, but I guess I never will. I pulled my coat up over my head and walked the few blocks back to my hotel lamenting what an odd evening it had been.

You know, as much as I enjoyed the trip, I was very ready to get home when the time came. As I went through the Atlanta airport I saw the same slacker employees that are always there, but looked at them in a whole new light. Here I was among a crowd, more than half of whom were not from the US, and realized their first impression of the US was that of these “Out of the Hood Program” rejects (search “Bon Qui Qui on youtube if you didn’t get that) and I was suddenly embarrassed to be standing in the US passport line. There was the young woman in passport control who was pacing back and forth between the lines, looking bored enough to be French, repeating in a droning monotone that those with US passports should be in this line, all others in that line, making barely perceptible hand gestures to each as she did so. The problem was, she was on her third repetition before I, a native English speaker, could figure out what she was saying. Then we got to the customs baggage carousel where the young man, who was supposed to be arranging all the suitcases so they fit in the available space, stood in his cordoned off area at the end of the baggage chute texting back and forth with someone furiously. During his occasional wait for answers, he would sometimes grab a bag or two and turn them the right way. At one point there was a prolonged break in the flow of baggage so a couple of people inquired rather he might know what was going on. Unfortunately he couldn’t be bothered to even look at them, much less respond to them. This kid was getting paid to text evidently. Then there was the group of employees in the concourse on the way out, standing in a small group with various implements of their jobs still in hand, laughing loudly and telling stories that were littered with expletives. I just shook my head and moved on, trying my best to look like a foreigner.

I had a brief scare at the gate where the Tampa flight was boarding. Aside from the fact that they’d moved it from gate A2 (at the END of the concourse – around 1/4 mile) to gate A19 (right next to where I’d just gotten up from eating before walking to gate A2) without announcing it anywhere but in the gate area, they were right on schedule to begin boarding shortly. As I arrived at the gate I heard the gate agent tell someone just ahead of me that the flight was checked in full. I checked the standby list on the monitor and my name wasn’t on it. Great. And I wasn’t even on a Delta ticket. Having nothing to lose, I decided to ask anyway . The gate agent never actually answered me, but started typing furiously on her keyboard, and continued to do so for quite a while. I suspect she was IM’ing that French guy, but I have no way of proving it. A couple of minutes later, while waiting in the awkward silence as she typed I glanced up at the standby list and, there I was, first on the list. Again, without a word she handed me my boarding card. Exit Row! Yes! It was a middle seat, but beggars can’t be choosers.

As my seatmates and I settled in, the young guy in the aisle seat pleasantly struck up a conversation. To be honest, I wasn’t in the mood to talk – I know shocking, huh – after the 174 hours I’d spent in planes, trains and automobiles that day (just a guesstimate) but, not having it in me to be that guy, I started chatting with him. He was obviously military, and said he was on his way to Tampa from Galveston. As we took off he made some offhand comment about flying that made me think he was a pilot so I asked him if he was. He told me he was, and that he owned an RV8 experimental and had  gone up for an hour or so just that morning. He asked if I was and we ended up talking about planes and swapping stupid pilot stories. He made reference to several aerobatic maneuvers he’d flown in his RV8, but then he offhandedly mentioned one that I was sure an RV8 couldn’t do. Hmmm. So, I asked him if he flew in the military as well – he looked like he could have walked straight out of central casting for the part. “Yeah,” he said, “I fly an F18.” !!!!!!!  O – M – G, Becky!!! Did you HEAR that, Becky? <fans self and calms down> I think I just ovulated…

Anyhow, further discussion revealed that he not only flew an F18, but was one of the Navy’s demo pilots. You know, the guy who goes to various air shows to show what the plane can do – read “all the REALLY COOL stuff they don’t normally get to do” – in hopes of suckering hoards of young men into signing up, only to find themselves flying a desk or fixing latrines shipboard. It worked on me; they got me to sign the papers when I was 17. I never actually ended up going in, but that is a whole other long story, and I digress. So there I was, sitting next to my hero. It felt a little like I’d just discovered that the guy I’d been discussing Newton’s laws with for the last half hour turned out to be Einstein. Or like I’d been unknowingly discussing flying model rockets with Neil Armstrong. I don’t fly, this guy flies! He insists he has more fun flying his RV8, but I am approximately 109% certain he was just lying through his teeth to make me feel better. That would be like someone saying “Oh? The Diablo? Yeah it’s mine, but I’d rather drive that <gestures to a ‘72 Corolla with faded paint>. THAT is REAL driving…”  Ummm, yah. I was a little embarrassed when, after that, he asked if I had any pictures on my laptop from my crash landing (“Sorry, dad, I wrecked the Corolla”). I did and I showed him, then I quickly changed the subject to photography, which he knew nothing about. Nah, I’m kidding, I shamelessly pumped him for cool F18 stories. I’m pretty sure he was waiting for me to ask for his autograph as we got off from the way I was acting. I didn’t, of course, since I couldn’t find my pen. I’d have done one of those arm’s length photos – a la myspace – of he and I, but I didn’t think of it in time. Rats. Oh well, I’m reasonably certain he wouldn’t have done the two finger salute, nor the puckered lips required to make those type photos really work. Can’t win ‘em all, I suppose.

So, anyhow, as I finish this post, I am back home in Atlanta. We had a great week in Florida for spring break where we went out on a pirate ship and fed giraffes (two separate events, btw. Giraffes on pirate ships would be WAY too 60’s), among other things. I’ll post up some pics of that later on. I’m off this Saturday for San Francisco to speak at the RSA conference. Yikes! I am still beyond nervous. That is THE biggest show in my industry, drawing around 20,000 attendees. Not that I have to get up in front of the whole group, mind you, only a subset of them, but I’m already well into stage fright. Speaking to a few hundred people doesn’t bother me at all, but when you tack on another zero, and a stage and lights are required, I begin to get a little (read a LOT) nervous. If I don’t throw up – on stage, I mean, the rest is up for grabs – I’ll consider it a success. Wish me luck!

/g

So, the trip to Helsinki has been uneventful and I am off to Paris this evening. Helsinki is rather small and not especially unique, even by locals’ accounts. It isn’t surprising when you consider that the population of the entire country of Finland is almost exactly that of the Atlanta metro area and only a little over a quarter that of the NYC metro area. Helsinki accounts for a little over half a million people. Unfortunately, much of the architecture is very utilitarian. A lot of it has a Soviet feel to it which, when you consider they share a border with Russia, isn’t terribly surprising. It is a very harsh environment and Fins, as a race, live far more in logic than emotion which also informs their design choices. As a consequence, I really didn’t take very many pictures here this time. There just wasn’t that much worth photographing. They do have a quite beautiful train station downtown, but I shot all the pictures I wanted of that the last time I was here. One of those shots is on my Smugmug site, in fact.

Travel overseas is makes most people a little uncomfortable – assuming it isn’t something they do very frequently – because they are blazing new neural pathways. It’s really the sum of a lot of little things, but there is nowhere you can go that doesn’t remind you that you are thousands of miles from home. Bathrooms have different fixtures, the currency is different, street signs look different, plugs and light switches are different, etc. then there is language. Assuming you don’t speak the language, even the basic ability to communicate is a constant questions. As an aside, I heard a joke a while back that I thought was funny but uncomfortably close to true: What do you call a person who speaks more than two languages? Multi-lingual. What do you call someone who speaks two languages? Bi-lingual. What do you call a person who speaks one language? American. Um, ouch.

Annnywho, I happen to get a rush out of the unknown, but I feel no less isolated because of that. And it is worse in some countries than others. In Helsinki, for instance, I feel far more out of place here than in, say, France or Italy. It is because, unlike French or Italian, Finnish shares no commonality in origin with English. And I’m yet to find a Finnish street name I can pronounce. I can’t even hop in a cab and tell them where I want to go unless it is the hotel (Radisson Seaside) or the airport (Vaanta) because I can pronounce those and they already know where they are. Even the sounds used in the spoken language are radically different than those in English and it sounds very harsh to my ear. But, if you ever want to feel really, really uncomfortable, go into a grocery store in another (non-English speaking) country. Real “foreignness” lives in the grocery store. The environment in a grocery store is still familiar, but nothing on the shelves looks like it does at home. The packaging, the color pallet, even the very shape of the packages is different. And you are completely immersed in it. If you get too unsettled, find the soft drink aisle and stand in front of the Coke until you catch your breath; Coke looks the same pretty much anywhere.

And, while Helsinki has certainly been interesting from that aspect, I found this particular trip far more interesting on the work related side than I did on the foreign country aspect of it. The reason I am here is for work. The company I work for is based here and we are having an engineering meeting, drawing the majority of our engineers globally to HQ. Being that we are a truly global company, that entails lots of people with major cultural differences. Being a die-hard people watcher, this week has been fascinating. Watching everyone interact throughout the day and, more telling, watching them interact in the hotel lounge at night or in after hour events. The company does a great job of encouraging camaraderie. We are all staying in the same hotel that has a huge lounge are for gathering informally downstairs, and we all go to and from the office together on a chartered bus. And we have group activities after hours.

At dinner night before last, I was at a table with 2 Italians, a guy from Latvia, a guy from Russia, a Fin and a guy from Brazil. I was in observation overdrive. I was positively fascinated. Not surprisingly the Americans in the room were the most, um, outgoing, and the Hispanic countries were pretty close to matching us. The remainder of the groups fit exactly where the stereotypes would suggest they would. I guess there is a reason for the stereotypes, huh? The Italians were warm and friendly, but fairly reserved, the Asians were painfully withdrawn, but equally painfully polite. The Germans were very German, while the Scandinavians were a bit aloof. The French were superior to all of us, of course. So, while none of their individual behavior was particular interesting, watching the interactions between all these people was riveting. There was easily twice the amount of non-verbal communications in the room than verbal. You could almost read the room from body language alone. I saw more fake smiles that night than I have in a long time, as people tried to be polite to people the just didn’t get.

But the next morning was the really fascinating part. The company had brought in a “presentation consultant” to coach us on effective communication in presentations. Having been through these things before, I knew what we were in for as soon as I walked into the meeting room to find all the tables gone and the chairs arranged in a circle around the perimeter of the room. It was the standard “we’re going to teach you to think outside the box by forcing you outside your comfort zone” configuration. Many of the others had no idea what they were in for; poor guys… It started with the ‘”coach” having us all stand in a circle and “raise your right hand… now turn to your right… now, place it on the shoulder of the person in front of you… now, put your other hand on their other shoulder and give them a quick massage” then, after about a minute, you reverse. There were group exercises where the group was divided in two and told that “you are a runners coach and he is in the last few hundred meters of a marathon and is struggling to make it through. Your job is to encourage them, however you would do that. I want to FEEL it.” and the other half of the group critiques you. The room breaks into pandemonium for a bit. Reverse sides and repeat.

Then there was this nifty little “dance” that was most amusing. While still in a circle around the room you were to follow what the coach was showing you. It went like this: you grab the front of your pants by sort of pinching the fabric on the front of each side and pulling it away from your body. If it seems like it might appear vaguely obscene, you are spot on; it did initially appear that way. And you say the word for trousers in Finnish (hosu), then grab your shirt similarly and pull it out and say the word for shirt (puseron), then pick up and grab your right foot in both hands and say shoe (kenkä), drop it and grab your right root and do the same, then jump and turn 180 degrees to you are facing out of the circle and put one hand on each, um, cheek (those facing into the circle, not out) and say the Finnish word for buttocks (pakarat). Jump back around, facing into the circle and start it over. (hosu, puseron, kenkä, kenkä, pakarat… hosu, puseron, kenkä, kenkä, pakarat…) getting faster each time until it was impossible to keep up with. That exercise really showed plainly where along the introvert-extrovert scale the different cultures fit. I felt sorry for many of them who were so far outside their comfort zone that they couldn’t even see it anymore… but it was kinda funny.

Then there was lots of role playing. “Team up in twos. One of you is the customer, who is aggressive and the other is delivering bad news.” or “OK, team up and one of you is demonstrating birth, life, death and rebirth to the other, but without words.” And the crowning exercise was the worst by far because it singled each person out. Again in a circle around the room, each person has to walk into the middle of the circle and show their “physical signature” – that is, non-verbally do something that represents you. It should last 10 to 15 seconds – then say your name and step back to your place. And he wouldn’t let anyone ‘”mail it in” by just like, walking in and waving at everyone. It had to be demonstrative. I thought the Chinese might actually die. They were miserable as their turn approached – agonizingly slowly – and grew progressively more rigid. The idea behind all of this was to force you past the instinctive instinct to close up when put in front of a crowd. I think the Chinese just came away with a keenly honed dislike for westerners.

In any case, I found it a blast, but I think I was in the minority. We all get together once or twice a year in Helsinki, but usually half of us at a time. This is the first time we’ve all been here at once since I’ve been with the company. The time for my cab to pick me up for the airport is drawing clear and I find myself a little saddened. I really like a few of these guys a lot and enjoy talking with them about common interests that I share with very few other people. And, besides, I doubt France will offer anything so over the top as a mock dance culminating with you grabbing your own behind (with both hands, no less). I’ll just have to live with it, I suppose. I’ll check back in from Paris sometime soon.

Peace out,
/g

So, as you may or may not have noticed, I’ve hardly touched the blog lately. It isn’t for lack of interest, but I’ve been traveling an insane amount lately. I was in New York for seven days recently and, in the weeks surrounding that, found myself in Louisville, Birmingham, Charlotte and a couple of other places. And, at the moment, I am sitting in a hotel in Helsinki, Finland. The trip was/is to be a day in Venice, four days in Helsinki, three days in Paris then on to Tampa, FL to meet up with my family for spring break.

Well, so far my trip has been interesting. But, then, there’s that ancient Chinese curse "may you live in interesting times", so I suppose interesting isn’t always a good thing. On my flight over I was able to sleep most of the way so that helped me acclimate to the time change. So that was good. When I woke up I felt like someone had beat me with garden hoses and shoveled some dirt into my mouth, but it is a small price to pay to not have to be aware of my knees on either side of my head for the whole 8 hours or so.

So, I was connecting through Paris to Venice and had a one hour five minute connection which is tight anywhere, but is *very* tight at Charles de Gaulle airport. As an aside, I think CDG was designed by retarded monkeys with a slide rules, but I can’t prove it. If you’ve ever had the, um, pleasure of connecting through there you know what I mean. Anyhow, so I was gamely going to try to make my connection which was  insanely optimistic. But, then, I *am* an optimist (mainly because I think optimism is so darn cute) so I hoped for the best. My hope was  that the plane would be a touch early, I would have a seat near the front of it and customs – you have to pass through passport control  between flights, in case I failed to mention it – would not be too backed up. So, I got a seat very near the front of the plane and we were, in fact, a couple of minutes early! I couldn’t believe my luck. It looked like I was actually gonna be able to make this one! Well, it looked like that until the po-po’s stopped the whole group of us in the hallway on the way to customs. They kept us there for half an hour with no explanation (how French of them) before letting us go along with about 5 other plane-loads of people that they’d also held up. It turns out  that some *moron* (probably American) left a bag in the queue area in customs so they cleared the place out and brought in the dogs, et al.  Five minutes earlier and I would have gotten rushed though, now I got to wait with the amorphous masses.

The good news was that they were able to get me on the next flight which was almost three hours later. Unfortunately that was three hours out  of my already way too short jaunt to Venice. But, as they say, don’t look a gift frog in the mouth (that was a mildly pejorative French reference in case it slipped past you). So, off I go to Venice.

Upon arrival in Venice I go to pick up my luggage only to find it conspicuously <em>not</em> going around in circles with the rest of the luggage. So, off I go to lost baggage to burn yet another hour of time I should have been eating pizza and looking like a tourist. They manage to tell me it is in Paris, but that it will be in on a flight tomorrow. Unfortunately the flight it is coming in on is a little over two hours AFTER the flight I am leaving on. After much haggling I convince them just to send my luggage on to Helsinki so we can have our little tearful reunion there. Put a thumb there and we’ll come back to that.

But I should feel pretty good about things cause they gave me this *nifty* toiletries kit with all *kinds* of neat stuff. There is the single  blade razor made out of what feels like recycled milk cartons and a handle that is half normal length. Were they expecting to hand these out to oompah loompahs or something? It is almost a step up from a sharp rock. Almost. Then there is the toothbrush made from a similar material with the same abbreviated handle and toothpaste that tastes like, well, paste. You know, like the paste you used to use in first grade. Oh, and let us not forget the deodorant whose design more resembles that of a ring-pop gone wrong than any traditional deodorant. Then there was the shirt they so thoughtfully include. It is a tee shirt with  the ’sky team’ logo on it. It is uncanny how perceptive they are; they knew I’d want to advertise for them given that I am currently their  biggest fan. Unfortunately, it is an XL and, well, I am a long way past wearing an XL shirt. I am in a 2XLT (and the T – for tall – truly matters) or 3XLT  depending on who makes it. Me, in an XL shirt? Well, to quote Fred of ‘Right Said Fred’ fame, ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt’… Well, it would  look like I think I am anyhow.

Now, in the interest of being fair they *did* tell me I could spend up to 100 Euros on whatever I needed to get by and I could send it in for reimbursement. How generous. 100 Euros. In Venice. I did manage to get one nice pair of socks and only had to add another 8 Euros out of my pocket. OK, seriously, so I didn’t spend any of it for a couple of reasons. Perhaps the biggest is that by the time I got where I could even  try to buy something it was almost dark on a Monday. Most of the clothiers had closed up shop. It is just as well since they wouldn’t have had anything that would fit me anyway.

Anyway, enough about that. So, Venice… you know, there just isn’t anywhere else like it. I finished up with the luggage Nazis and hopped the Vaperetto to Venice. I soaked in the ambiance from the time they shoved off. I got tons of pictures, a few of them even pretty good. The hotel I got (for $84 US a night, thank you very much) absolutely exceeded my expectations. It was worth three times that at least. It was almost adjacent to St Marks Square, with 12 foot ceilings, ceiling height gold draperies and sheers framing the French doors to my balcony that looked onto the most charming little square. Ornate gilt framed mirrors and such galore and an uber-modern bathroom that I would have tried to sneak home with me, but I figured they’d notice it missing and would charge my card. Besides, I had no luggage to hide it in, anyhow. But it was, in a word, magnifico.

I walked my little feet off (OK, so they aren’t little. Whatever) in the time I was there. I dropped my stuff in the room and headed immediately back out to the streets (if you can call them that), camera in hand. I walked from Piazza San Marco (St Marks Square) to the grand canal then up it for a ways and back. Only stopping for the occasional photo op, I trekked something around 5 or 6 miles I would guess, and that doesn’t count the couple of miles I’d already put in through airports and such just getting there. By the time I got back near my hotel it was close to midnight and I was starving, so I set out looking for food – specifically pizza – and boy did I find it.

Let me paint a picture for you. Deep within the labyrinth of alleyways that make up Venice lays a small square. It is nothing like the great squares typified by Piazza San Marco, but a very small, quaint area – which is actually triangular – ringed by a few shops and trattorias. In fact, it may not even qualify as a square; perhaps it is just a wide place where several major alleyways converge. It is late – just shy of midnight – and all but one of the trattorias has closed up shop for the evening. The others with their tables and chairs stacked just inside, and their awnings rolled up. The one that remains open has perhaps 6 or 8 tables in front of it. Each table is adorned with a small candle and there was just enough of a breeze to cause them to gently flicker. The majority of people left on the streets were couples, walking hand in hand, speaking in whispers and oblivious to the world around them while a continuous stream of songs filtered out the open door of the main dining room. All tunes by Frank Sinatra and his contemporaries. All love songs. The music reverberating off the ancient marble and stone of the buildings lining the square, giving it a presence – an ambiance – that enveloped you. It was beyond romantic. It was amazing. It was magical. It was not somewhere to eat alone. And yet, there I was. I can honestly say I don’t ever recall being so lonely, yet so content in the same moment.

After finishing my amazing pizza – down to the last crumb – I walked around for another hour or so just soaking in the city. I love walking the streets of cities when they are asleep. I do it almost everywhere I go. There is something so intimate about it, particularly in a place as cozy as Venice is to begin with. I can’t think of anywhere that matches Venice for that particular experience.

So I returned to my room and I set my alarm for a few hours and trekked back out for sunrise shots. For those not counting, thus starts day three in the same clothes. I caught the socks trying to jimmy the lock on the French doors to make their escape but I stopped them, I think they were in cahoots with the underwear, but I can’t prove it and they both deny it…  =oP

The sunrise shots were a bust since it was grey and cloud, so I didn’t accomplish much, but I did wander around a bit more and pick up souvenirs for the kids and send some postcards back home. Then I came perilously close to missing my flight out which would have been a disaster given that I have to be in our office here in Helsinki first thing tomorrow morning. See, I was given bad information about where to catch the vaperetto back to the airport. By the time I figured it out, I’d missed the one I’d intended to catch and had to wait around more than a half an hour to catch the next one. It, in turn, took about 75 minutes to complete what was supposed to be a 50 minute trip. When I told the gate agent what flight I was checking in for she looked almost panicked. Then security got all anal with my stuff and made me take it apart most thoroughly. And, of course, my gate was almost the furthest one from security.

…all of which brings me to here, my hotel in Helsinki. It is quite nice, but my luggage was not here as promised. I called and it turns out that my luggage finally did get to Venice after all. I hope it enjoys its time there as much as I did. I also hope its stay is as brief as mine was. Meanwhile, I am here left to face day *four* in these clothes, not to mention that they aren’t exactly proper office attire under the best of circumstances. I did manage to get some detergent and the bathroom here has a heated towel rack that I’m hoping will have them dry by morning. Wish me luck.

I’ve posted a few of the photos from Venice here. They are straight out of the camera and haven’t been processed yet so you won’t get the full impact of what I was after. Oh well, better that than nothing, I suppose. I’ll keep you informed as this trip unfolds further…

/g

Aside from the sheer scale of the city – all the streets are lined by so many tall buildings that they become urban canyons reminiscent of art class vanishing point perspective drawings – what really gives New York its unique feel is the people. They are widely regarded as rude by people from, well, almost anywhere else. And, while some certainly are rude without a doubt, it really is largely a misconception.

What it really boils down to is this: there are so many people jammed together that it puts you in a defensive posture to begin with but, even assuming it didn’t, it simply isn’t practical to make any real human connection on the streets there. Every day I walked to and from my hotel at 51st and Lexington to where I was working at 39th and Madison. One morning, just for grins, I tried to count the number of people I passed on the way in. I had to give up before the first block. I’d reached 150 by mid-block and I’m reasonably certain I’d missed a few. So, conservatively, I passed 300 people in that one block. My walk was 14 blocks. That means that, in that 10 minute walk, I passed something close to 5,000 people. At that scale, it just isn’t possible to deal with other people as people. They are just moving obstacles in your path.

You see, when you think people are being rude in The City, they generally really aren’t. The can’t be rude to you because they never even saw you. Each of those people on the street are walking in their own world, just weaving through a maze of moving objects on the way to wherever they are headed. If you got the chance to go hang out in the offices where they are headed you’d see that they greet each other as effusively as people anywhere else; they stand around the water cooler and discuss sports and politics and kids much as office workers anywhere else in the country do.

But, the thing is, that practiced detachment in the street is foreign to most outsiders, so they tend to stick out like sore thumbs. And, if you’ve ever lived anywhere that is a tourist destination, you know how much love the locals have for the tourists; less than none. Tourists wander around slowing things down while all you are trying to do is get to work. So, as a public service, I’ve compiled a list of things that, at least in New York City, will make you stand out as an obvious tourist. Carrying a camera makes you look like a tourist anywhere – those aren’t the kinds of things I’m talking about – I’m talking about the things that are at least somewhat unique to New York.

So here they are, in no particular order:

Look up. I know there are lots of really tall buildings and, for most of us at least, it inspires awe, so we walk around looking up at them in amazement. This also tend to cause us to not follow the rapidly shifting foot traffic ahead of us as closely as we should causing us to run into other people. Locals never look up. In fact, they usually have their eyes cast slightly downward to avoid making the next big tourist mistake…

Make eye contact. Natives of the city never, and I mean never, make eye contact on the street with anyone intentionally unless they are trying to pick them up. Making eye contact with someone risks your accidentally realizing they are people. If they do inadvertently make eye contact, they immediately avert their eyes to pretend they were examining a nearby newspaper stand or storefront. If they are unable to find a suitably plausible excuse, one of them must change sides of the street at the next corner. OK, so that is perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.

Wait for the walk signal. There is no faster way to mark yourself as a tourist than to stand dutifully on the curb until the little green walk guy lights up. Most locals are off the curb well before it changes and many are across the street by the time it comes on. The real sign for locals is the cross street yellow light. And, If a car is left stuck in the intersection because of it, too bad for them. They shouldn’t have counted on being able to drive on the street.

Fail to aggressively defend your cab. If a local flags down a cab and, when said cab stops, someone else attempts to ’steal’ that cab, the ensuing confrontation is somewhat reminiscent of Roman gladiator games. The participants are but a loin cloth and a knife in their teeth away from a Charlton Heston movie.

Give cabbies addresses and not intersections. The street numbers in the city were devised by sadists. As a result, there is little predictability in where any given address will be. There is actually a system behind it, but it is so convoluted that only a mathematician could keep track of it. So, if you want to fit in, don’t tell them you need to go to “260 Madison Avenue”, instead tell them to take you to “39th and Madison”. Any good directions in The City will include cross streets. If you don’t have that information, the cabbie can pull out “the book” and look it up, but you can often expect to take the scenic – a.k.a. more expensive – route to get there.

Look surprised. If a car parked at the curb suddenly and spontaneously bursts into flames, New Yorkers will not show a hint of surprise. In fact, many of them wouldn’t even look at it; they would only notice it if it were blocking a crosswalk. Trust me when I tell you, the streets there will most certainly have most normal visitors on edge and there is plenty there to find surprising even if you weren’t. Suppress the urge. Tap into your inner Garfield and you’ll blend in just fine.

Walk slowly. Locals all walk at approximately Mach 1.4 except when they get stuck in the knot of foot traffic behind some tourist, who is usually walking slowly, wearing a camera and gawking up at the big buildings while looking surprised. Pay attention and try and keep up. If you positively must gawk, step into one of the many alcoves presented by storefronts or into the void on the leeward side of a paperbox or trashcan at the curb.

Act as though you can see the people around you. This is an acquired skill that you won’t likely master on your first trip. A little method acting can come in handy here, though. Think back to the worst fight you ever had with your spouse/significant other/sibling/etc. and remember the icy silence that followed in its wake. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about here. You remember; they’d say something and you either not respond or ask some third party in the room “did you hear something?” Yeah, like that. Now, tap into that feeling and pretend everyone you pass is that person. Done right, it should appear that you are walking down the sidewalk occasionally zigging or zagging for no apparent reason, not in response to other actual people there. As an extension this, you should avoid altering your path for others on the sidewalks in any overtly courteous manner.

Speaking to strangers at all. While it may be acceptable to ask the time of a stranger in Atlanta, or to say ‘Excuse Me’ to someone you accidentally bump into on the sidewalk in San Fran, that simply isn’t acceptable behavior in The City. There is a good chance that stranger will be a local and your speaking to them will simply confuse them. Remember that, for them, you aren’t there. They will likely be thinking “did you hear something?”

Paying full price from a street vendor. The City is loaded with street vendors selling anything from scarves , hats and ties, to knockoff Coach bags (which we refer to as “Couch bags”) and the like. Their asking price is always negotiable. Only a sucker – a.k.a. tourist – pays full price. The exception to this rule is for food. Don’t try and haggle over the price of a giant pretzel, cup of coffee, bagle, sausage, etc. You will most certainly stand out as a tourist if you do.

Oh, and as a bonus eleventh thing to do to look like a tourist in The City, I’ll tell you this: Carrying a large bouquet of pink balloons for several miles through the city streets will most certainly mark you as a tourist and may even draw a glance or two from the jaded locals. Don’t ask me how I know this; trust me, it is true.

So, if you find yourself in New York – and in the above examples I specifically mean Manhattan – and you simply must partake in any of the above behaviors, do yourself a favor. Flag down the next cab you can get and tell them to take you to Times Square. There are so many tourists there you will blend in just fine. Better yet, tell him to drop you at 42nd and 8th. It is but a block off of Times Square, and mere steps from John’s Pizzeria, where you can find some of the best thin crust pizzas in a city known for their thin crust pizza. They are cooked in a coal fired oven and are to die for. Oh, and while you are there, remember, it is a pie, not a pizza. Wouldn’t want to look like a tourist, now would you?

/g

A panorama shot I took off the top of the Rockefeller Center during my recent trip. It is composed of 11 individual shots “stitched” together

]]> http://gregmead.com/2009/03/10-ways-to-look-like-a-tourist-in-nyc/feed/ 0 http://gregmead.com/2009/02/danger-will-robinson/ http://gregmead.com/2009/02/danger-will-robinson/#comments Fri, 20 Feb 2009 19:26:33 +0000 Greg http://gregmead.com/?p=915 Hello to everyone who might happen upon this. This might seem an odd post considering the normal content here, but one I felt necessary just the same. For those of you who don’t know me or anything about me, I make my living in the computer security industry and have for many years. What does that mean? Well, think ‘hacker with ethics’ and you’ll be a large part of the way there. The actual accepted term is that I’m a ‘white hat’ but you get the idea.

So, why does that matter to you? Well, because a security alert surfaced yesterday that is particularly alarming and many if not most ‘normal’ people would not be likely to hear about it. Adobe has announced that the Acrobat reader has a bug that can allow someone to remotely take control of your machine. I know it works because I have the code to do it and have tried it. Unfortunately, Adobe will not have a fix out until March 11th and that is only for the most recent version. Previous version fixes will come out over the weeks following. You should also ake sure your virus definitions stay up to date over the next few weeks. Antivirus software is apt to pick it up far before the actual fix is available, but only if you have the most current updates to your antivirus signatures.

What does that all mean in English? Well, for the next month or more your machine has a huge security hole that could allow someone to remotely take control of it. The good news is that it is easy to avoid since it requires you to do something before it lets them in. The bad news is that most people don’t know any better than to do that thing. What is that thing? Opening files that come from sources you cannot trust. I know, many of you are saying ‘well, duh’ about now. But the thing is, even among the tech people I know, most of them know not to run .exe files (programs) that come from unknown sources. But in this case we are just talking about pdf files. Glorified Word documents practically. So, yeah, it is an easy target. So, if someone emails you some document for you to ‘take a look at’ or something, unless it is a friend you know well and you are expecting the document, don’t open it. Even if it is a friend but it is out of the blue, I would verify. Remember, if someone has compromised their PC they can send email acting as that friend, and they’d have access to the friend’s email address book too. So, I guess if I had to distill this further yet, I would say this: trust no one, suspect every one.

Now that I’ve spread my little rays of sunshine for the day I can go skipping through the tulip fields happily (I would say gaily but, when one is talking of skipping through tulip fields, well, precision in word choice matters a bit more) knowing I’ve saved the world. OK, so, I’m given to hyperbole. I can do so knowing that you’ve been warned. =o)

Peace,
/g

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