http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVQd5jPKC_A
aaaahahahaha i'm ridiculous!!!
anyways, this is the iPad commercial we made for the GEO magazine application. I'm international! hahahahaha i can't even stand it
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Let the adventures begin!
Can I just say really quickly that I am SO pumped for all of the trips I have planned in the upcoming months. This weekend I head to Nice with a friend from way back in the day.
Next weekend is still a bit up in the air, but it looks like we may be going to Madrid.
1st weekend in June: Agadir, Morocco
2nd weekend in June: Oslo, Norway.. and let it please be noted that roundtrip tickets cost a mere 16 euros
3rd weekend in June: Porto, Portugal
2nd weekend in July: Road trip to Amsterdam
2nd weekend in August: Milan, Italy
2 potential trips in July to visit friends: Barcelona and London
There is one reason that causes me to hate the European Union for existing which is that I can't collect stamps in my passport at each country :/ Other than that, vive l'Union!!!!
Next weekend is still a bit up in the air, but it looks like we may be going to Madrid.
1st weekend in June: Agadir, Morocco
2nd weekend in June: Oslo, Norway.. and let it please be noted that roundtrip tickets cost a mere 16 euros
3rd weekend in June: Porto, Portugal
2nd weekend in July: Road trip to Amsterdam
2nd weekend in August: Milan, Italy
2 potential trips in July to visit friends: Barcelona and London
There is one reason that causes me to hate the European Union for existing which is that I can't collect stamps in my passport at each country :/ Other than that, vive l'Union!!!!
Monday, May 10, 2010
It's the little things in life...
I find that the more I live in a foreign city, the more time I take to observe the unnoticed. It's quite unusual, really. I feel as though I am developing a mental disorder- my eye catches the smallest of the most minuscule things, and they always seem to be hilarious. The problem with this heightened 6th sense, if you will, is that no one else seems to notice these quirky little happenings. This is fine, don't get me wrong, but I've started to realize that I give off the impression of being... how to say it delicately... just a little bit off. To further elaborate on this revelation, let me present you with the following, entirely true story. In doing so, I fully acknowledge that many people reading this may see little humor in it. However, to the old souls of both yesteryear and of modern-times that posses the uncanny, quick sense of humor much like that of my own, to you I say, "you're welcome."
I woke up late Sunday morning- the sunlight pouring into my bedroom seemed even brighter than usual. It wasn't the usual warm, gentle sunlight that fills my room with a lemon glow. It was instead a frigid brightness, only further enhanced by a canary yellow filter courtesy of the sheer, ragged dollar-store curtains that hang limply from the curtain rods.
I have developed a bit of a tradition for Sunday mornings. I wake up with the sun, or with the piercing yells of gypsy vendors that sell flowers they cut from the local parks and gardens. Either way, I wake up. I carefully pull the window curtains aside and open the French windows opposite my bed. I mosey on over to the closet that is my kitchen, brew a cup of instant (yet surprisingly delicious) coffee, and mosey back into my room. I peer out the open window, looking to see if people are wearing jackets or not. I always see an even 50/50 of people wearing either heavy pea coats, or a spring cardigan. With no reached conclusion, I then lean most of my upper torso out of the window in order to determine if I need to schlep a jacket with me. I sip on my coffee, putter around my room, sip coffee, make my bed, sip coffee, get dressed, and look for the cup o' joe than I misplaced in between making my bed and getting dressed. I give up the great Sunday coffee-cup hunt, gather my purse and a reusable grocery bag, and clobber down the four flights of stairs of my apartment building. I walk down my street, avoiding the yelling gyspy flower vendors, to the large, intersecting avenue where I catch the metro. Alas, the enormous open-air market.
I don't know what it is about this market in particular, but I always feel like I have walked into a different era. People carry wicker baskets- yes, actual wicker picnic baskets- filling them with bunches of leeks, shiny purple eggplants, fresh loaves of bread, and a bouquet of flowers. Everyone buys a bouquet of flowers on Sunday. Looking at each vendor's stand is an experience in of itself. The produce is always unbelievably gorgeous. The seafood stands, proudly displaying bug-eyed fish, slimy, inky squid, and buckets of different mollusks, emit a stench that lingers even once the market closes. The butchers' stands showcase the finest cuts of steaks, completely intact poultry (from beaks to feet to feathers), meters and meters of sausage links, entire pig heads, and entire skinned rabbits, displayed in such a way that much resembles my memories of dissecting frogs in high school biology. Yum. The noises of the market are a melange of shouts, screaming children, and the haunting sound of a butcher knife against a plank of wood as chickens are decapitated. Yesterday was no different. My sense of wonder remains constant. I wait in line at one of the dozens of produce stands. I bought a head of lettuce, a bunch of fresh basil, a bunch of tomatoes still on the vine, a kilo of red onions, red peppers, and a zucchini for a whopping total of 5 euros. And thus grew my love for my Sunday market.
I walk back to my apartment, begin the great climb up the increasingly steep flights of stairs, and eventually reach the summit- my lungs gasping for air as they adjust to the altitude, my arms straining under the weight of the heavy bags... or maybe I'm just really out of shape. I put my purchases on the dining room table (my bedroom is multi-functional as it is a dining-living-bedroom combo), find the lost cup of now room-temperature coffee which is so obviously placed dead-center on the dining room table, and chug what remains.
This past Sunday, I had plans for a picnic lunch. With my new supply of food, I packed a hearty salad into my always leaking Tupperware, found an old bedsheet and my latest read- a David Sedaris book- and gracefully jammed them all into a plastic shopping bag. I headed out the door, clobbered down the stairs, gypsy-dodged down the street, and allowed the escalator of the metro to carry me up the to the platform that sits on the overpass above my dearest market. I look at the lit up sign that tells me I have a 5 minute wait until the next metro arrives. I usually just stand around and read, but yesterday I decided to live a little and relax on the red painted benches that are bolted to the floors. I take out my book and begin to read.
And so I read, letting myself get swept up in the hilariousness of my David Sedaris book. I read something funny and react instantly by smiling, which leads to a muffled chuckle. I look up from the page to the stained white tiles of the metro platform to see a not quite gray colored pigeon. I realize that this particular bird should actually be white, but is covered in the charcoal grit of the city. Its scrawny legs are a bright salmon color, and have the same texture as a scab. The pigeon zig-zags across the tiled-floor, it's puny talons create a soft tapping noise, much like that of a mechanical pencil, against the ceramic. Much like any pigeon, it was on a quest for anything remotely edible.
This platform had been recently swept, and the floors were barren. The pigeon hobbles on over and pecks at a cigarette butt, which clearly did not meet his dietary standards. Unsatisfied, he turns his body around and continues his prowl. He walks over to some British tourists, looks at them, and turns around. He waddles close to my feet, cocks his head, looks around, pecks at nothing, and walks away. He must have been quite hungry, or was maybe late for a prior pigeon engagement, for his pace quickened. He click-clacked in zig-zags back and forth along a 15 foot radius, hoping that manna had miraculously appeared. Or maybe a piece of stale, chewed-up, spit-out gum. His wobble turned into more of a frantic saunter. His legs pumped back and forth, carrying the weight of his body. Each step was faster than the last. This pigeon broke into the equivalent of a pigeon gallop. And then I witnessed something that I have never seen before in my entire 22 years on this earth. The pigeon skidded across the floor. It was like he was running on black ice. Apparently, pigeons aren't meant to gallop. What caught me off-guard what that it didn't even attempt to fly out of his fall. He just... fell. I knew that if I was capable of flight, I would have been up and at em in a blink of an eye. Call me old-fashioned, but I thought that being able to fly pretty much eliminates any situation of slipping and falling. Have you ever seen a pigeon slip and fall, or any bird for that matter?
The moral of the story, girls and boys, is that I've begun to see the humor in everything. Who says that waiting for the metro has to be dull and uneventful. By taking the time to smell the flowers, I was able to see one of the year's most unusual events. That Sunday, infamous Sunday, will be forever remembered as the day in which I saw a pigeon face plant.
I woke up late Sunday morning- the sunlight pouring into my bedroom seemed even brighter than usual. It wasn't the usual warm, gentle sunlight that fills my room with a lemon glow. It was instead a frigid brightness, only further enhanced by a canary yellow filter courtesy of the sheer, ragged dollar-store curtains that hang limply from the curtain rods.
I have developed a bit of a tradition for Sunday mornings. I wake up with the sun, or with the piercing yells of gypsy vendors that sell flowers they cut from the local parks and gardens. Either way, I wake up. I carefully pull the window curtains aside and open the French windows opposite my bed. I mosey on over to the closet that is my kitchen, brew a cup of instant (yet surprisingly delicious) coffee, and mosey back into my room. I peer out the open window, looking to see if people are wearing jackets or not. I always see an even 50/50 of people wearing either heavy pea coats, or a spring cardigan. With no reached conclusion, I then lean most of my upper torso out of the window in order to determine if I need to schlep a jacket with me. I sip on my coffee, putter around my room, sip coffee, make my bed, sip coffee, get dressed, and look for the cup o' joe than I misplaced in between making my bed and getting dressed. I give up the great Sunday coffee-cup hunt, gather my purse and a reusable grocery bag, and clobber down the four flights of stairs of my apartment building. I walk down my street, avoiding the yelling gyspy flower vendors, to the large, intersecting avenue where I catch the metro. Alas, the enormous open-air market.
I don't know what it is about this market in particular, but I always feel like I have walked into a different era. People carry wicker baskets- yes, actual wicker picnic baskets- filling them with bunches of leeks, shiny purple eggplants, fresh loaves of bread, and a bouquet of flowers. Everyone buys a bouquet of flowers on Sunday. Looking at each vendor's stand is an experience in of itself. The produce is always unbelievably gorgeous. The seafood stands, proudly displaying bug-eyed fish, slimy, inky squid, and buckets of different mollusks, emit a stench that lingers even once the market closes. The butchers' stands showcase the finest cuts of steaks, completely intact poultry (from beaks to feet to feathers), meters and meters of sausage links, entire pig heads, and entire skinned rabbits, displayed in such a way that much resembles my memories of dissecting frogs in high school biology. Yum. The noises of the market are a melange of shouts, screaming children, and the haunting sound of a butcher knife against a plank of wood as chickens are decapitated. Yesterday was no different. My sense of wonder remains constant. I wait in line at one of the dozens of produce stands. I bought a head of lettuce, a bunch of fresh basil, a bunch of tomatoes still on the vine, a kilo of red onions, red peppers, and a zucchini for a whopping total of 5 euros. And thus grew my love for my Sunday market.
I walk back to my apartment, begin the great climb up the increasingly steep flights of stairs, and eventually reach the summit- my lungs gasping for air as they adjust to the altitude, my arms straining under the weight of the heavy bags... or maybe I'm just really out of shape. I put my purchases on the dining room table (my bedroom is multi-functional as it is a dining-living-bedroom combo), find the lost cup of now room-temperature coffee which is so obviously placed dead-center on the dining room table, and chug what remains.
This past Sunday, I had plans for a picnic lunch. With my new supply of food, I packed a hearty salad into my always leaking Tupperware, found an old bedsheet and my latest read- a David Sedaris book- and gracefully jammed them all into a plastic shopping bag. I headed out the door, clobbered down the stairs, gypsy-dodged down the street, and allowed the escalator of the metro to carry me up the to the platform that sits on the overpass above my dearest market. I look at the lit up sign that tells me I have a 5 minute wait until the next metro arrives. I usually just stand around and read, but yesterday I decided to live a little and relax on the red painted benches that are bolted to the floors. I take out my book and begin to read.
And so I read, letting myself get swept up in the hilariousness of my David Sedaris book. I read something funny and react instantly by smiling, which leads to a muffled chuckle. I look up from the page to the stained white tiles of the metro platform to see a not quite gray colored pigeon. I realize that this particular bird should actually be white, but is covered in the charcoal grit of the city. Its scrawny legs are a bright salmon color, and have the same texture as a scab. The pigeon zig-zags across the tiled-floor, it's puny talons create a soft tapping noise, much like that of a mechanical pencil, against the ceramic. Much like any pigeon, it was on a quest for anything remotely edible.
This platform had been recently swept, and the floors were barren. The pigeon hobbles on over and pecks at a cigarette butt, which clearly did not meet his dietary standards. Unsatisfied, he turns his body around and continues his prowl. He walks over to some British tourists, looks at them, and turns around. He waddles close to my feet, cocks his head, looks around, pecks at nothing, and walks away. He must have been quite hungry, or was maybe late for a prior pigeon engagement, for his pace quickened. He click-clacked in zig-zags back and forth along a 15 foot radius, hoping that manna had miraculously appeared. Or maybe a piece of stale, chewed-up, spit-out gum. His wobble turned into more of a frantic saunter. His legs pumped back and forth, carrying the weight of his body. Each step was faster than the last. This pigeon broke into the equivalent of a pigeon gallop. And then I witnessed something that I have never seen before in my entire 22 years on this earth. The pigeon skidded across the floor. It was like he was running on black ice. Apparently, pigeons aren't meant to gallop. What caught me off-guard what that it didn't even attempt to fly out of his fall. He just... fell. I knew that if I was capable of flight, I would have been up and at em in a blink of an eye. Call me old-fashioned, but I thought that being able to fly pretty much eliminates any situation of slipping and falling. Have you ever seen a pigeon slip and fall, or any bird for that matter?
The moral of the story, girls and boys, is that I've begun to see the humor in everything. Who says that waiting for the metro has to be dull and uneventful. By taking the time to smell the flowers, I was able to see one of the year's most unusual events. That Sunday, infamous Sunday, will be forever remembered as the day in which I saw a pigeon face plant.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Oh France, you still have a few tricks up your sleeve, eh?
The past few weeks has been a bit intense. After having learned my final exam results, I managed to fail only 3 out of the enormous total of 13. Alas, I began to study... again. For those who may not be aware, it is incredibly difficult to start studying for a class that has been finished for over 2 months. Getting back into the scholastic mindset proved to be a challenge, but with the motivation of my friends, I pulled through. We had group study sessions. My roommate and I studied after dinner. I carried flashcards in my purse and reviewed them on my morning metro ride to work. The retakes took place at my school in Reims, the city of champagne an hour (or two) from Paris. Et voilà, I had to take time off of work, find someone who still lived in Reims that would let me sleepover, and haul myself on back to the place I had escaped but not a few weeks ago.
The retakes didn't go well. I tried quite hard, but the pressure got the best of me. In order to stay in Reims next year and graduate with two diplomas, I need to pass every class. If I fail, I have to redo the entire year over again. Not only is this a waste of money that I don't have, but it's also a slap in the face for all of the hard work and effort of the preceding year. I have too much pride to repeat the year, and also, I think it's mildly stupid to spend 6 years as an undergraduate. (Side note, Northeastern is a 5 year school, hence I'm not graduating this year) So, if I don't pass the exams, I don't pass the year. If I don't pass the year, I can't stay. If I can't stay, I won't get the double diploma, and I may lose my hard-earned capabilities to speak, comprehend, and write in French. This is significant for a few reasons.
1. The double diploma thing could open up some serious doors for my career. The thing is, no one outside of France really understands the diploma, but that doesn't matter. It's the principle that I stayed abroad for 2 years, am nearly fluent in another language, and graduated from two different universities in 5 years. I'll have such ridiculous things to talk about during interviews, and an experience that not a whole lot of Americans have.
2. All I've ever wanted in life, besides tasty chocolate or a nice pair of sneakers here and there (only half-kidding) was to be at least bi-lingual. I'm trying to look at the big picture here. I don't necessarily love the city of Reims, and I definitely have no love for the school. The people are awesome though. However, this aspect isn't enough to keep me abroad. I tend not to base my decisions around other people, but instead what I want for myself. Selfish? Maybe... But, at the end of the day, people enter and leave your life. Needless to say, it's not a deal breaker for me. The deal breaker is this- if I were to leave France and return to the States, when would I be speaking French? I wouldn't hear it on a daily basis. I wouldn't be forced to exude the extra energy to rack my brain and find that one word. I started learning French in 6th grade, and I've been nothing but mediocre in it. I learn better outside of the classroom. Even if I returned to the States and joined a French club or something, I'd lose what I've worked so hard on this past year. If my life goal is to be at least bi-lingual, leaving France would be detrimental to my dream. I'm so close to achieving it. If I stop now, I can guarantee that my dream will never come true. So yes, last semester wasn't nearly as fun or happy as it would be in Boston. True. BUT, you have to sacrifice some things in life to get what you want. I want to speak another language fluently more than anything else in the world. If that means I have to miss my senior year at NU, so be it. I ain't quittin' now.
So here is where the title of this post comes into play. After my first (of two) day of intensive exams, I find out that the retakes count for 100% of the total grade. One of my classes involved a huge group project that counted for 30% of the total mark. My group did fairly well on it, so it boosted up my grade a bit. So, after I take this stupid retake, I find out that the grade from my group work is completely void. All that work for nothing. I was talking to a French friend of mine, expressing my blatant discontent, and he said "well, what did you expect? Isn't it logical that a retake would count for 100%?" to which I replied, "honey, it's not in my logic to even have a retake." I mean, I guess having the opportunity to take an exam again is pretty nice, but what frustrates me is that NO ONE told us about this. I do mean NO ONE. I think I should have had fair warning about it. It isn't written in any of the information packets we received. Nothing.
Trick numba 2: We find out our final grades.... drumroll please...The end of July. Are you kidding me?!?!? It's incredibly ridiculous that I won't know what country I'll be living in until the end of July. It's such a crock of BS! That means I can't start looking for an apartment in Reims until August because I can't sign a lease without knowing if I'm actually going to stay in the country. I also have only one month to renew my visa and do all of the paperwork involved. I can't even buy a return ticket back to France because I don't know if I will be returning!!!! So stupid. Like actually stupid. I'd love to buy a ticket back to the States for my grand September return, but I don't know if it will be round trip or not! Gah!
On another note, my job is awesome! The full-page advertisement that I created for Enfant Magazine will be on-stands on the 12th. I'm going to get as many copies as I can. I'm sorry, but I think it's pretty friggin cool that my ad is going to be published in 200,000 copies distributed across France. Pfffft, no big deal. What else... for confidential reasons, I'm not allowed to elaborate on this, but I got to play with an iPad at work! What's even cooler is that the iPad hasn't even been launched in Europe (the launch is May 22nd, I believe) so it's making me feel a bit exclusive. Having used it for a few days, all I can say that is if I didn't need to pay my rent, I'd buy one in a second. After now having plugged the iPad, I'll return back to the subject of work being really great. My boss has given me such great opportunities to really get involved with certain key projects. I've attended a few meetings so far, which has definitely been an experience to say the least. It's interesting to see the differences of how business is done here in France. I can't quite put my finger on it yet, but it's almost as if people work with a sense of hierarchy... I have a higher position than you, so therefor I have more authority, and I don't care if I was the one to make a mistake but since I have more authority I'm not in the wrong... it seems counterproductive. It's hard to organize meetings with people because everyone is running all over the place. Everything seems to be last minute, and without concrete action plans. It's tons of negotiating... but not even in a monetary sense. It's negotiating on every level, constantly fighting for things to be done efficiently or to meet a certain deadline. There is zero communication between departments. Everyone is so disconnected. I have to say that while I love France for many reasons, business is not one of them. It's way too political and bureaucratic here. Most of the time there is no rhyme or reason for things. I know it's not good to compare countries, but I much prefer the way business is done in America. It's efficient, direct, and effective. It's yes or no, black or white. Here, it's "oh, let me talk to some other people to see what they think, and then we'll request another meeting that will take forever to make, and everyone will be at least 20 minutes late for it or not show up at all, and then we'll discuss it forever, and then give you a maybe for an answer, and then you can send us more proposals, more people may or may not look at them, and we'll talk, try to organize another meeting....." Such an absurd cycle. People just aren't as concise here as we are in the States. I like things to happen, badda bing, badda boom. Done. I don't think business should be flowery or delicate. It's aggressive and punchy. It's why I've never liked politics or literature analysis. I don't like the gray areas.
And that's all she wrote for today. Tune in next time to find out what happens in the opinionated, wacky tales of Dena, the girl that may or may not be completely absurd.
The retakes didn't go well. I tried quite hard, but the pressure got the best of me. In order to stay in Reims next year and graduate with two diplomas, I need to pass every class. If I fail, I have to redo the entire year over again. Not only is this a waste of money that I don't have, but it's also a slap in the face for all of the hard work and effort of the preceding year. I have too much pride to repeat the year, and also, I think it's mildly stupid to spend 6 years as an undergraduate. (Side note, Northeastern is a 5 year school, hence I'm not graduating this year) So, if I don't pass the exams, I don't pass the year. If I don't pass the year, I can't stay. If I can't stay, I won't get the double diploma, and I may lose my hard-earned capabilities to speak, comprehend, and write in French. This is significant for a few reasons.
1. The double diploma thing could open up some serious doors for my career. The thing is, no one outside of France really understands the diploma, but that doesn't matter. It's the principle that I stayed abroad for 2 years, am nearly fluent in another language, and graduated from two different universities in 5 years. I'll have such ridiculous things to talk about during interviews, and an experience that not a whole lot of Americans have.
2. All I've ever wanted in life, besides tasty chocolate or a nice pair of sneakers here and there (only half-kidding) was to be at least bi-lingual. I'm trying to look at the big picture here. I don't necessarily love the city of Reims, and I definitely have no love for the school. The people are awesome though. However, this aspect isn't enough to keep me abroad. I tend not to base my decisions around other people, but instead what I want for myself. Selfish? Maybe... But, at the end of the day, people enter and leave your life. Needless to say, it's not a deal breaker for me. The deal breaker is this- if I were to leave France and return to the States, when would I be speaking French? I wouldn't hear it on a daily basis. I wouldn't be forced to exude the extra energy to rack my brain and find that one word. I started learning French in 6th grade, and I've been nothing but mediocre in it. I learn better outside of the classroom. Even if I returned to the States and joined a French club or something, I'd lose what I've worked so hard on this past year. If my life goal is to be at least bi-lingual, leaving France would be detrimental to my dream. I'm so close to achieving it. If I stop now, I can guarantee that my dream will never come true. So yes, last semester wasn't nearly as fun or happy as it would be in Boston. True. BUT, you have to sacrifice some things in life to get what you want. I want to speak another language fluently more than anything else in the world. If that means I have to miss my senior year at NU, so be it. I ain't quittin' now.
So here is where the title of this post comes into play. After my first (of two) day of intensive exams, I find out that the retakes count for 100% of the total grade. One of my classes involved a huge group project that counted for 30% of the total mark. My group did fairly well on it, so it boosted up my grade a bit. So, after I take this stupid retake, I find out that the grade from my group work is completely void. All that work for nothing. I was talking to a French friend of mine, expressing my blatant discontent, and he said "well, what did you expect? Isn't it logical that a retake would count for 100%?" to which I replied, "honey, it's not in my logic to even have a retake." I mean, I guess having the opportunity to take an exam again is pretty nice, but what frustrates me is that NO ONE told us about this. I do mean NO ONE. I think I should have had fair warning about it. It isn't written in any of the information packets we received. Nothing.
Trick numba 2: We find out our final grades.... drumroll please...The end of July. Are you kidding me?!?!? It's incredibly ridiculous that I won't know what country I'll be living in until the end of July. It's such a crock of BS! That means I can't start looking for an apartment in Reims until August because I can't sign a lease without knowing if I'm actually going to stay in the country. I also have only one month to renew my visa and do all of the paperwork involved. I can't even buy a return ticket back to France because I don't know if I will be returning!!!! So stupid. Like actually stupid. I'd love to buy a ticket back to the States for my grand September return, but I don't know if it will be round trip or not! Gah!
On another note, my job is awesome! The full-page advertisement that I created for Enfant Magazine will be on-stands on the 12th. I'm going to get as many copies as I can. I'm sorry, but I think it's pretty friggin cool that my ad is going to be published in 200,000 copies distributed across France. Pfffft, no big deal. What else... for confidential reasons, I'm not allowed to elaborate on this, but I got to play with an iPad at work! What's even cooler is that the iPad hasn't even been launched in Europe (the launch is May 22nd, I believe) so it's making me feel a bit exclusive. Having used it for a few days, all I can say that is if I didn't need to pay my rent, I'd buy one in a second. After now having plugged the iPad, I'll return back to the subject of work being really great. My boss has given me such great opportunities to really get involved with certain key projects. I've attended a few meetings so far, which has definitely been an experience to say the least. It's interesting to see the differences of how business is done here in France. I can't quite put my finger on it yet, but it's almost as if people work with a sense of hierarchy... I have a higher position than you, so therefor I have more authority, and I don't care if I was the one to make a mistake but since I have more authority I'm not in the wrong... it seems counterproductive. It's hard to organize meetings with people because everyone is running all over the place. Everything seems to be last minute, and without concrete action plans. It's tons of negotiating... but not even in a monetary sense. It's negotiating on every level, constantly fighting for things to be done efficiently or to meet a certain deadline. There is zero communication between departments. Everyone is so disconnected. I have to say that while I love France for many reasons, business is not one of them. It's way too political and bureaucratic here. Most of the time there is no rhyme or reason for things. I know it's not good to compare countries, but I much prefer the way business is done in America. It's efficient, direct, and effective. It's yes or no, black or white. Here, it's "oh, let me talk to some other people to see what they think, and then we'll request another meeting that will take forever to make, and everyone will be at least 20 minutes late for it or not show up at all, and then we'll discuss it forever, and then give you a maybe for an answer, and then you can send us more proposals, more people may or may not look at them, and we'll talk, try to organize another meeting....." Such an absurd cycle. People just aren't as concise here as we are in the States. I like things to happen, badda bing, badda boom. Done. I don't think business should be flowery or delicate. It's aggressive and punchy. It's why I've never liked politics or literature analysis. I don't like the gray areas.
And that's all she wrote for today. Tune in next time to find out what happens in the opinionated, wacky tales of Dena, the girl that may or may not be completely absurd.
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