Settling In

In terms of settling into my new apartment, I'm not doing a very good job. There are still a few (too many) boxes around, I'm still sans wardrobe, I'm still taking hours to find my stuff in the mornings, and there's still no food in my fridge.


But in terms of settling into my new Parisian life, I think I'm almost there. I really thought it would be harder, and lonelier, than it has been. While at INSEAD, everyone was talking about Dubai, London, Singapore, and I was worried I was going to get left behind. Instead, I now find myself in the "most happening" city in the INSEAD world! Whether it's because of the current job market, the fact that Paris is on the way to most places, or simply because people have finally realized this is the most beautiful city in the world (there's the chauvinist in me), France's capital has definitely become a hub of INSEAD activity. At least once or twice a week I find myself surrounded by former classmates having dinner, going dancing, celebrating housewarmings or making Charlie Chaplin films (don't ask). And of course there are the old friends, the ones who have stayed true despite the Fontainebleau hiatus during which I fell off the face of the earth, and who are now happily re-found.

So here I am with a busier social life than I have ever had, requiring the investment of significant physical and emotional energy. Don't get me wrong. Despite what some have said, this is not a continuation of INSEAD. Things today are very different; this is not just another "P". The people around me are not the same as a few months ago, or the ones I would necessarily have expected to be part of my new life. Some friends have been lost (or at least temporarily displaced) by the effect of geography, timing or life's unpredictable quirks, and others gained. Happily, there are also the two or three people I am so lucky to have kept close, and with whom I am now developing something perhaps more serious, and more "real" than what we might have had during those fickle INSEAD days.

A new career, a new apartment, a new city, new bonds, new feelings (not to mention a new, historical, US political landscape - go Obama!)... These first few months of my post-third-life-crisis life have been rife with upheaval, an ever-changing cartography I'm now slowly adapting to. Fortunately, some things never change. Like the fact that I can still ramble on for hours about absolutely nothing just for the pleasure of sending my thoughts into the ether. Like the fact that it's often a strong emotional reaction to someone close to me that gets me writing, and yet I never actually write about it (is that frustrating for you, I wonder?!) Like the fact that cigarettes, beer and melodramatic music (Pink Floyd, this time) always get the creative juices flowing.

It's good to know there are some things you can count on.

The perfect little consultant

Well, as you may have guessed from my silence since the last post (apologies to those of you who have been clamoring for news), things have livened up a bit at BM. Although my weekends have remained work-free (with the exception of one, outrageously extravagant and blessedly juvenile 4-day "office retreat") my weeks are now choc-full with problem-solving sessions, conference calls, meetings left right and center, and of course the artistic creation of Picasso-esque slides. In French: pages.

That's something else I've had to get used to. It's not enough to have to adapt to an entirely new way of working, new people, new types of problems, I also have to do this in French. Well, a language that pretends to be French, anyway. More like Franglais with a BM-twist. By next month I can guarantee that my family and friends will no longer be able to understand a word I'm saying.

So here I am, dutifully listening to my manager (who is younger than me), drawing pretty boxes and arrows and bubulles, and thinking back with longing of those days when I used to have a social life. And time to eat (the great mystery of why all BM female consultants are so thin having been resolved).

When I'm not attempting to force a business manual down my client's throat (and dodging the errant bullets from angry protesters outside the building), I am attempting to settle into my new apartment. I'm not complaining, the apartment is fabulous. Or will be, once the gigantic cardboard-box maze running through it finally gets cleared and my belongings become somewhat accessible. This morning witnessed the first breakfast, as I finally found cereal bowls and one spoon (why on earth there was a box containing a single, lonely spoon, I will never know).

So now that I've managed to ramble on incomprehensibly (not very consultant-like of me...) I will leave you to your fabulous lives and exercise my amazing powers of persuasion on my colleagues to see if they can be convinced that 2pm is not actually too early for lunch.

Tedium and Nostalgia

On my way to work this morning, my ipod stumbled upon "Relax" and I almost cried. This is not a good sign. I think I may be suffering from PTSD.

Perhaps the pangs of nostalgia would subside somewhat if things picked up a bit at BM. Unfortunately, I seem to be de trop on my current assignment (whatever it is), and my manager has yet to find any use for me other than going through a small library of background documents (all of which I've already finished reading; one of the side-effects of having been a lawyer is being able to digest mountains of information in a very short timespan). So, instead of being productively employed and thus suitably distracted from my INSEAD-driven thoughts, I am sitting at my sad little desk, staring at my sad little computer and (discreetly) blogging.

The silver lining (and there always is one) is that the lack of anything BM-related to do has left me plenty of time for flat-hunting, my current number 1 priority. I mean, it's nice to be living the teenage dream of having my mother coddle me while still being able to go out whenever I want, but all good things must come to an end. It is time for me to trade in home-cooked meals, clean laundry and a vastly oversized living space for a "room of my own", à la Virgina Woolf, where everything in the fridge will be past its due date, six-months old editions of ELLE will be littering the floor and two cats will be on the verge of murder-suicide. But the parties will be legendary (apologies to my future neighbours). It's not a done deal yet but I think I may have found the perfect bachelorette pad, in my favourite neighbourhood in Paris. Fingers crossed.

BM 007

In theory, I start proper work tomorrow. I say in theory because my manager at BM has yet to contact me to tell me what the heck I'm actually supposed to be doing, or even where I'm supposed to be. I'm taking an educated guess and hoping that somewhere in the Paris area is my general destination. Perhaps on my way to the office some woman will stop me and say "gee, there sure are a lot more people in red t-shirts than there used to be" and I'll say "well, red is the new black", at which point she'll hand me a briefcase with fingerprint-encrypted DVD instructions inside that self-destruct after 30 seconds. "Your mission, should you decide to accept it..."

Of course my "mission" is top secret. As is everything at BM. We are not allowed to tell strangers we work for BM. We are not allowed to disclose the name of our clients, or to tell people where we are travelling to in case they can deduce the identity of our client based on the destination. We are not to use the BM name to reserve a table in a restaurant, in the apparently quite likely event that enemy agents decide to sit next to us and spike our drinks and end up torturing us for information.

On the one hand, it's rather intoxicating to think that I'm a new, corporate James-Bond-type figure (in a dashing, fitted Hugo Boss pant suit and Jimmy Choos, of course). On the other hand, it's a massive conversation killer and basically guarantees that I will never get a date again. Imagine the scene: it's a crowded, no-longer-smoky bar, the margaritas appear, a tall, dark handsome stranger leans in and asks: "So, what do you do?" "I can't tell you." "Oh. Will you be in Paris next week?" "I can't tell you." "Right. Oh look. I think I see my friend over there. Nice meeting you. (Aside) Nut case."

Week 1 as a Nugget

There's only one person I know of who will understand the joke in the title, which just goes to show I have a very odd sense of humour, but hey, sometimes you need it, particularly when you turn your life topsy-turvy and go from law school to law firm to MBA to consulting firm and people start looking at you like you're nuts.

It's now official. I am a bona fide consultant at Big Massive Consulting Firm (BM). Well, sort of. So far, all I've done is spent one week learning how to use a telephone, how to fill in my expense reports, and how to locate the coffee machine while blindfolded and chased by a rabid dog at 5a.m. Next week, I get to replay INSEAD, and spend long hours learning how to work in a group, read and analyse a case, make a very lame powerpoint presentation and take abuse while smiling. And then I will be a bona fide consultant at BM. Assuming I get staffed on something (as opposed to "beached", which sounds nice if you're thinking pina coladas with umbrellas, but not so nice if you're thinking large, stranded whale).

So here I am, staring out the window at a grey, uninviting sky, thinking I really need to get a move on and pack my suitcase for training, and wincing as I recall that less than 10 days ago I was in the south of France, basking in sunshine and surrounded by some of my closest INSEAD friends. Just this past Friday I met a group of alumni, toutes promotions confondues, and was told by someone older and wiser than myself that I should be prepared for 6 months to one year of post-graduation depression. Oh goody. On a positive note, I was also told that no matter how cynical I might be, I was sure to keep some of my fellow MBA friends for life, a thought which cheered me up considerably.

My next plan of action (besides learning how to be a good little BM nugget) is therefore to go out there and find myself a flat (must at all costs avoid the Tanguy syndrome), and make sure it includes lots of spare mattresses, sleeping bags, closets to pass out in, so I can welcome all my friends, new and old, and turn it into a small but vital hub of cheerfulness when BM gets me down (and we all know it will).

Please say a little prayer for me to the gods of flathunting.

PS: As I was having dinner with my absolutely oldest friend last night (congrats on the engagement!) I realized that besides the occasional wedding recap, I spend very little time writing about those who have been near and dear for more than just ten months. This does not mean I do not love you, and I promise to remedy this grave injustice in the future. So to all of you who, while I have been frolicking in the forest being utterly irresponsible, have been busy working, changing jobs, running companies, buying flats, getting engaged/married/pregnant/small people, thanks for being patient and forgiving. I'm back.

Bubble Revisited

One of the drawbacks of INSEAD, particularly if you were a die-hard Fonty resident like myself, is that you could never escape the bubble. One of the advantages of INSEAD is that, once you graduate, you can always return to the bubble and even take it with you in a handy carry-on case whenever you wish.

And so it is that over the next few days, some favourite alumni of mine will magically materialize here, in the balmy south of France, from various corners of the globe, to eat, drink and be rowdy in true bubble style. Summer adventures will be told and retold, gossip poured over with glee, and more than a few ear-splitting renditions of Mika will be sung around the pool. I can't wait!

For those of you who are starting INSEAD now, or any other business school for that matter, this is what you have to look forward to. I envy you these next 10 months during which you will discover and build friendships that, come graduation, you'll wonder how you ever lived without. So, leave the stress of grading and exams behind you for a moment (I know from my keyword statistics that these are your principal concerns) and imagine all those people you do not yet have the pleasure of knowing but who you will be spending your next summer holiday getting happily tipsy with. Before jobs and other grown-up things pull a Jonah and the whale on you.

For the Glory

Once every four years I get the chance to indulge in one of my favourite activities, namely becoming a couch potato, regardless of the weather outside, to watch the Olympics. From judo to swimming to fencing to archery to kayaking to whatever else the television programmers decide to throw at me, I watch and enjoy it all. I can't help thinking that here are the real athletes. It's one thing to dedicate yourself to your sport, with all the training and risk of injury that implies, when you make millions in endorsements and become a world-wide star. But for the athletes at the Olympics, there is no money or fame on the line (with the possible rare exception of Michael Phelps-types). They all have other jobs to pay the bills, no one will recognize them in the street, and they will never peddle sodas, shoes, cereal or razors on national television. And still they train, sweat, and suffer just because they love their sport and that's what they do. It's a beautiful thing. And so, despite the paucity of medals on the French side so far, I remain glued to the screen to catch their 15 minutes of glory.

This is my last full day of indulgence however, as tomorrow I head south to witness (literally) another impressive display, namely one of my best friends getting married. Despite the massive writer's block which refuses to lift and threatens to cause me great embarrassment when it comes to the speech-making, I am happy to participate in another joyous event involving one of my close friends (all of whom have recently either gotten hitched or procreated, in a kind of avalanche of growing up which so far has passed me by).

Then it will be time for a final two weeks of holiday in the sun on the beautiful Côte d'Azur before C-Day, i.e. the day I launch my attempt at becoming a consultant.