Last Friday I found out that the French company does actually produce things and, what's more: evidently, there are companies out there who want to buy their products. We went to visit a warehouse somewhere outside Paris from where they ship their goods to clients. Of course, it turned out that all those people carrying goods around this 15,000 square meter space in their cool little carts, who are packing big antennae in huge wooden boxes, punching holes in those boxes, and performing other "real" (ie manual) tasks are not Alcatel employees - these activities are "outsourced". (It would appear that the author of "Bonjour Paresse" (translation: Hello Laziness), a new French bestseller, a guide on how to survive at these large, state owned (or semi-state owned) French monster companies is right; her tip: "Be nice to temps and employees of the outsourced - they are the only ones who do ny real work". The book is quite entertaining by the way, with a tad too many references to Lacan and other similar philosophers.)

I now also have the opportunity to explore in-depth the other side: the "project people". They are the people who sit in this nice office building, create heeps of power point presentations that nobody (including themselves) is interested in; have no idea (and no interest in) what their company is trying to sell; appear to be participating in a perpetual "who-can-cram-more-acronyms-into-one-sentence-contest"; and - hire consultants. This latter means that I have to be nice to them. Especially now, that I have finally been assigned to a "project" so on the treadmill I am rehearsing sentences like: "Understanding the ERP in DP is crucial so that the SSUs in the BDs such as AND, OND, VND and MRD can add value to the SC and so that accountabilities are clear both horizontally and vertically providing alignment with BPs at all levels of the organization." I promise you, I am not making it up.

I went to see my French aunt (who is not really my aunt and could be my second mother), Michele, last weekend in Geneva. She took me to a party thrown by a young woman (originally from the Ivory Coast) in celebration of her joining the ranks of the great Swiss citizenry. The Swiss is a strange creature. Even the French-Swiss. Some of the species is able to live in the heart of Europe without being any more knowledgeable about Europe than the lama-rearing peasants of the Bolivian Andes. As a naive "New European" I did not think that, between two bites of cheese raclette (the undigestable local speciality), I would be asked by a fellow European whether Hungary was still a communist dictatorship.

Otherwise, Geneva is very beautiful, if a little provincial. It was good to spend time with Michele - last time I saw her was a painful experience; it was at the funeral of Andras, her husband, in January. She is one of those people whose opinions and worldview has had a great impact on me - almost despite myself. Michele is a "soixante-huitard", a child of the sixties and the Parisian "revolution" of May '68, hence an (ex?)-communist with strong opinions on pretty much everything. I was convinced for years that in politics "left" equals "good" and "right" equals "evil" because that is what I learned from her when I spent a year in France at the age of eight. There were many other similarly undisputable truths she taught us in many areas of life, including political preferences and literary, culinary or artistic tastes. Many of these stuck with me for years and when I later reassessed them for myself I found that on most matters I agreed (politics notwithstanding), but I did not embrace the way of thinking. For the most part, I refuse to espouse undisputable truths and I will not communicate my preferences/tastes/worldview as such to my children. (To be fair, the Sacre Coeur in Paris is really ugly, I confirmed that for myself recently...). Of course, now that I am an adult as well our discourse is quite different and we had a great time chatting, shopping, eating, etc, and not agreeing on everything is fine.

I finally will have a place to live in Paris. This should really improve my general mood, even if it will be a little strange because I am sharing the place with my two bosses: Tom, who is more like a friend (he is a good girl-friend's fiance and is an exceptionally intelligent and frighteningly purposeful and disciplined young man), and his ex-boss, a very friendly forty-ish German polyglot, who is a true child of the eighties with all that it implies (e.g. his unashamed enthusiasm for the solarium and for kitschy nouveau riche bars near the Champs-Elysees, the charming way in which he manages to mix up the names of his two female employees (me and the French-African woman from Togo - go figure), the penchant for everything a little over-the-top designer stuff, etc.). On the upside, he will only be staying there two-three nights a week, on average, and I will have to flat to myself most weekends. My sister is coming to see me on Friday and everyone who is reading this is very welcome. Come while it lasts/while I last here - I don't think it will be that long. Management consulting is likely not my life calling, either.

I need to get myself a scooter or a motorcycle or, at least, a boy with a motorcycle. This morning I went to look at apartments in the four corners of central Paris and we did the viewing with me sitting on the back of the real estate agent's motorcycle. I actually decided after seeing the first flat that that would be the best, but it was worth looking at the others just for the city tour on two wheels; there is something immensely satisfying about whizzing past cars and buses stuck in the early morning traffic jam.

Somehow I feel happier today. Maybe because I got paid yesterday - the first time in over half a year I made some money and I feel valued, at least superficially. Maybe because I am going home for the weekend and will get to see my brother as well. Maybe because I will be able to wear THE shoes at the wedding I will go to on Sunday. Maybe because there is light at the end of the tunnel on the apartment front. Maybe because I talked to someone I like.

I am not really inspired by the corporate environment. While I was walking around sunny Paris this past weekend I had lots of toughts, but when I am trying to write while sitting in the office (a nice office at that) I start focusing on the conference call that my office mate is having, and then I am trying to rank the French, the German, the Canadian and the Spanish accent in terms of level of annoyance and then that's it, no blogging for that day. Right now it is a little quieter and I let some fresh air in from the outside, where I wish I could be considering that it is sunny and beautiful there. The work has been ok so far - mostly because I have to invent tasks for myself and I do not have to use Standard Form Precedents or track changes. Alcatel, the semi-state-owned French corporation is a strange environment though...I am going to observe it for a bit longer before I make any statements. Plus I have to be careful with confidentiality issues...

I still have not fallen in love with Paris but I managed to explore it a little more over the weekend. Now I know what the "cool" areas are (Le Marais, full of gays and jews, cute little streets and bars), even got to go to a designer sale where I indulged myself in shopping, which - in addition to eating and pouting - is best done in France. Result: I now own the funkiest pair of Prada shoes. This is all thanks to my newest friend Cina, a French colleague who is originally from Togo was educated in strict catholic all-girls schools and at elite French and American universities, and is a true "French-African princess" (if such a things exists) - with an attitude. I am slightly scared of her, so much so, that I stopped wearing my grandmother's diamond ring in her presence - she reckons that I will never find another husband if I continue wearing it.

Otherwise, the fact that I don't know anyone here apart from Cina (and Sammy, my French friend from Harvard who recently moved back to Paris) is good for two reasons: I go to the gym all the time and I don't drink very much. The gym is great because it is pretty much the same everywhere - only in different languages. Reassuring and stable point de repere. The language does not much alter the experience anyway, since it is hardly a place of intense communication for me.

(So it is all fine. Or almost...except that I cannot sleep at night. Typical anxiety symptom that I have not had in a long time. Does it have to do with the fact that I am still wandering from one hotel to the next, which makes me unhappy and in turn draws my attention to the fundamental settling-related questions that I cannot answer? Don't know, but I keep repeating that it is all fine.)