Taedium vitae
Last night I dreamt that Citibank (of all people) came on grounds to interview people and hired just about everyone except me. Then they had a kind of induction session in a massive basketball stadium for all the thousands of people round the world that they had hired. And the chief hiring guy who was leading the session then played aloud a tape recording of a tearful voicemail that BigMouthLloyd had left him, along the lines of “thank you so much for hiring me, this has changed my life, I am so grateful”.
It was so moving, that at that point I woke myself up in floods of tears.
***
One of the only genuinely emotional classes I ever sat through in business school was in first year marketing. Spekman was teaching the Monsanto case, and it was all about how Monsanto was struggling to come up with a way to persuade the British and Europeans that GM ingredients weren't so bad really. The response from our class was remarkable: the Europeans had become impassioned even before the discussion had begun, and the Americans were reacting with bewildered incomprehension.
"What I don't understand," whined one American female (actually, the same woman who once emailed me to ask what the conversion rate of British pence to pounds was) "is why these people complain about what goes into their food when they all smoke. They're all killing themselves anyway."
Painstakingly, my European friends: Portuguese Pedro, Italian Roberto, German Philip, tried to explain the role of food in their culture. Why it mattered to them where asparagus had been grown, or what a pig had been fed when it was being reared, or how many hours ago a sardine had been caught. The more culturally sensitive Americans listened politely, but it was clear that the overwhelming majority were not sure why there was anything to discuss. Food comes from supermarkets, right? The only questions are, which brand is it, and how much does it cost?
***
Cut forward to a couple of weeks ago. The ClosetRower and I had met for the first time only minutes before, and we were already exchanging crucial information: where we had attended school. (And by that, I mean high school). My memory may be confused by wine I was drinking at the time, but I seem to remember that this was the first piece of information I learned about the CRM. And this is by no means unusual. I've had the same first conversation with British strangers all over America. Where did you go? Millfield. Rossall. Repton. St Paul's. The British are less inclined to bring up the American classic opener What do you do? until much later, and then only with a slight air of apology. (Now I think about it, I have many old friends whose employment status remains a complete mystery to me.) And the question is very rarely asked with a view to instantly assessing the net present value of the individual you are speaking to.
Not all British people ask each other where they went to school, I admit. The question is only asked if you are already pretty sure that the other person went to public (ie private) school. But fortunately there is a perfectly acceptable substitute question for use in just about any circumstance: Who do you support then? Southampton? They were crap against United last week... And so on. And a perfectly good conversation can be thus sustained for the rest of the evening.
***
The link between these two seemingly unconnected anecdotes is this:
The British are obsessed with labelling (and by that I mean the small print on the back). We British want to know where things - and people - have come from. We want to know the circumstances in which they were brought up, so we can compare them with our own and decide how comfortable we are going to feel with them: how easy it will be to find enough in common to be able to get along.
Just as it reassures me to know that my jamon is from the Iberian mountains: that the pig roamed around on the mountains for wild acorns and that his ham has not been pumped full of water to make it weigh more, I am reassured to get a fix on the origins of the people I meet. Such as, where they went to school and which football team they support (which in turn can reveal all sorts of things: where they were born or brought up, how strongly they feel about their home town, and even their relationship with their parents).
The Americans, on the other hand, are more interested in the future. What are you doing? Where are you going? How fast? How much are you going to be worth? Is this brand of bacon one that a successful person might buy? (I have never, ever, ever seen an American shopper look at a packet of bacon to see what the water and salt content is. They don't even need to look to see what cut it is, because it's always streaky.) Even steaks - steaks! - are branded now. Is this an aspirational branded steak? Are you an aspirational young Wall Street analyst? Good. In the cart.
***
ScaryCzechLady tells me that today in Czech-land it is national Alexandra day. All Alexandras are celebrating their name day. I shall have to give some thought as to how to celebrate.
It was so moving, that at that point I woke myself up in floods of tears.
***
One of the only genuinely emotional classes I ever sat through in business school was in first year marketing. Spekman was teaching the Monsanto case, and it was all about how Monsanto was struggling to come up with a way to persuade the British and Europeans that GM ingredients weren't so bad really. The response from our class was remarkable: the Europeans had become impassioned even before the discussion had begun, and the Americans were reacting with bewildered incomprehension.
"What I don't understand," whined one American female (actually, the same woman who once emailed me to ask what the conversion rate of British pence to pounds was) "is why these people complain about what goes into their food when they all smoke. They're all killing themselves anyway."
Painstakingly, my European friends: Portuguese Pedro, Italian Roberto, German Philip, tried to explain the role of food in their culture. Why it mattered to them where asparagus had been grown, or what a pig had been fed when it was being reared, or how many hours ago a sardine had been caught. The more culturally sensitive Americans listened politely, but it was clear that the overwhelming majority were not sure why there was anything to discuss. Food comes from supermarkets, right? The only questions are, which brand is it, and how much does it cost?
***
Cut forward to a couple of weeks ago. The ClosetRower and I had met for the first time only minutes before, and we were already exchanging crucial information: where we had attended school. (And by that, I mean high school). My memory may be confused by wine I was drinking at the time, but I seem to remember that this was the first piece of information I learned about the CRM. And this is by no means unusual. I've had the same first conversation with British strangers all over America. Where did you go? Millfield. Rossall. Repton. St Paul's. The British are less inclined to bring up the American classic opener What do you do? until much later, and then only with a slight air of apology. (Now I think about it, I have many old friends whose employment status remains a complete mystery to me.) And the question is very rarely asked with a view to instantly assessing the net present value of the individual you are speaking to.
Not all British people ask each other where they went to school, I admit. The question is only asked if you are already pretty sure that the other person went to public (ie private) school. But fortunately there is a perfectly acceptable substitute question for use in just about any circumstance: Who do you support then? Southampton? They were crap against United last week... And so on. And a perfectly good conversation can be thus sustained for the rest of the evening.
***
The link between these two seemingly unconnected anecdotes is this:
The British are obsessed with labelling (and by that I mean the small print on the back). We British want to know where things - and people - have come from. We want to know the circumstances in which they were brought up, so we can compare them with our own and decide how comfortable we are going to feel with them: how easy it will be to find enough in common to be able to get along.
Just as it reassures me to know that my jamon is from the Iberian mountains: that the pig roamed around on the mountains for wild acorns and that his ham has not been pumped full of water to make it weigh more, I am reassured to get a fix on the origins of the people I meet. Such as, where they went to school and which football team they support (which in turn can reveal all sorts of things: where they were born or brought up, how strongly they feel about their home town, and even their relationship with their parents).
The Americans, on the other hand, are more interested in the future. What are you doing? Where are you going? How fast? How much are you going to be worth? Is this brand of bacon one that a successful person might buy? (I have never, ever, ever seen an American shopper look at a packet of bacon to see what the water and salt content is. They don't even need to look to see what cut it is, because it's always streaky.) Even steaks - steaks! - are branded now. Is this an aspirational branded steak? Are you an aspirational young Wall Street analyst? Good. In the cart.
***
ScaryCzechLady tells me that today in Czech-land it is national Alexandra day. All Alexandras are celebrating their name day. I shall have to give some thought as to how to celebrate.
posted by alranson | 4:21 AM
1 Comments:
happy Alexandra day!
PS bids me tell you she is far too busy to talk but loves the pink jersey. Or something like that.
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