Introverted in travel, but also in life

I liked this description of the introverted traveller. Funny thing is, not only did I recognise myself in travel, but in how I live most days. Who says flâner is an activity reserved for trips abroad? The introverted pattern of social interaction also applies to my work: periodic bursts of intense interaction (with advisors, collaborators, etc.) surrounded by time spent working independently. And, as for always carrying a book (or, more likely, a bunch of recent scholarly journal articles) and/or a notebook, that just comes naturally with being a scientist; it’s part of our uniform, like the suit and tie is to the banker.

An ode to Canada's banks: Ahead in the Finance Olympics

Canadian banks have been getting some unaccustomed accolades around the globe this year. In fact, some of the last remaining AAA-rated banks in the world (as judged by credit rating agency Moody’s) are Canadian, surpassing many Swiss banks. Through their conservatism, and other banks falling away like flies, Canada’s Big Five have also quickly moved up the rankings of the world’s largest. This collective success is certainly a positive development for Canada’s role in the business world, even if only in terms of prestige, but my true affection for our Houses of Loonies has grown from a particular personal experience. Perhaps it's fitting that my warm feelings originated in the romantic City of Lights...

The story started well enough: friendly chit-chat with a gregarious banker curious to hear all about Canada, my reasons for moving to Paris last year and intrigued by my good, yet non-Québecois, french pronunciation. Though, that’s after I finally got to see someone. You see, in France, one can’t just walk into any bank branch to open an account; one needs a prior appointment, generally made a few days in advance for good measure. In fact, one can literally never just walk into a branch, one must press a doorbell and wait to be allowed in after being scrutinised via security camera.

The problems started almost 2 weeks later. My patience, allowing for a few intervening statutory holidays, had turned into concern. I had still not received my bank card and PIN. To my surprise, I received a call from my banker friend himself. No pleasantries this time, however. His stern voice was warning me that I should wire funds or make a deposit to pay for my overdraft. My overdraft?!?

You can see where this story is going. But first, some background: Unlike in Canada, when one is mailed a bank card in France, the PIN -- mailed separately, but with a nice bank logo on the envelope (no doubt to advertise the sensitive nature of its contents) -- is all one needs to start making purchases or bank withdrawals. There is also no such concept as “calling to activate” a debit or credit card.

Here’s another fun tidbit: I had explicitly refused all overdraft protection when opening my account. So, I asked Monsieur Banker, "how is it possible that my balance is currently negative nearly 4000 Euros?" The explanation is quite simple. In France, unlike here, transactions are generally not verified centrally at the point of sale, nor even at an ABM! This is a golden secret to all you potential fraudsters out there: if you manage to get a hold of a bank card and PIN in France, you have until midnight, Cinderella-style, to have as much fun as you want. And fun, my impostor did have: a fancy restaurant meal, a 3500 Euro impulse purchase at Gucci, a nightclub tab and a night at a hotel.

Up to then, I did not fault the bank. It was just an education in the defects of France’s outdated financial system (and perhaps the postal system). But that changed soon after I rushed to the bank that morning. No appointment necessary this time; I was expected. To my astonishment, Monsieur Banker and his supervisor from "upstairs" acted incredulous. “But this has never happened before!” Give me a break, with this start of the art, lack-of-security system, I was the first? I was made to write a hand-written letter on the spot outlining my objection, en français, to the aforementioned charges to my account. Then, informed that to initiate any internal bank investigation process I’d need to return with an official record of a complaint submission, I headed out to hunt for my local "antenna" of police.

It was somewhat surreal waiting in line at the police station, in a foreign country, having never needed to deal with the police ever in my life before, for an issue in which, really, it was the bank that was stolen from, not me; I had never even touched this ill-fated card.

Fast forward 1 week: another phone call from the bank. My request to increase my ABM withdrawal limit was declined pending a deposit to settle my current negative balance. Of course, I never made any such request! This will be our next lesson in French banking: when calling a bank, the only security questions one is asked are one’s name, birth date, and city of birth. You know, the sort of thing most people (not me) post on Facebook. And that’s assuming one is calling the central bank customer service line. If one is direct-dialling one’s local branch and happens to fall upon the banker one usually deals with, then it could only be name and bank account number for basic inquiries. In my case, apparently the fraudster had a non-Parisian accent as well, enough to fool Monsieur Banker to think he was really talking to me. Scary. This is not just an old-fashioned system, this is a comedy of errors!

A slow moving comedy.

The following 5 weeks were quiet except for my weekly inquiries or their odd request for a copy of my recent Canadian bank statements. The branch manager at my Canadian bank volunteered to append a glowing reference letter stating how I had been a valued client for almost two decades, the whole package faxed overseas in under an hour.

The fraudulent charges were finally reversed, minus a few unexplained 10 Euro service charges. Oh, and did I mention that I had, by then, been paying regular service fees for two months (7.75 Euros per month for the most basic of chequing accounts), for an account that I had not been able to use yet -- no replacement card was allowed until the bank made a final decision on my account. If this sounds like the bank was treating me like a suspect in this whole affair, it’s because that is indeed the case. I don’t know what happened internally, but I know that the police never investigated the matter. All I do know is that one week after my account was refunded I received a very formal letter, sent by registered express mail, from my bank branch. No expense was spared to make sure I received this piece of paper (unlike my bank card or PIN) which informed me that they did not find it “suitable” to keep my account and that I should close it by the end of the month.

One has to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The next time you walk into your local bank branch, even if greeted by a small queue, I hope you’ll pause to reflect on how civilized our banking system is. Perhaps even, like me, you’ll get the uncontrollable urge to smile. They are corporations and we may not have a direct vote in how they are run, but we are virtually all their clients. That’s more than we can say for successful Olympic athletes, which seem to instil odd feelings of pride in many of us, especially when they perform better their foreign counterparts. Perhaps our banks are just another reason why our country is great, at least compared to France and Switzerland.

Link: Banking in Canada (Wikipedia)

Irrational Behaviour

An entertaining talk given by Dan Ariely from the MIT Media Lab, director of the “The Center for Advanced Hindsight”.

And if we humans are irrational, so quite often are our creations…

Which leads me to my book suggestion of the day (not to imply that I have, or ever will, give book suggestions every day):

The Myth of the Rational Market: A History of Risk, Reward, and Delusion on Wall Street, by Justin Fox

Overheard at a café on a warm Monday evening

Paris, 2e arrondissement, Quartier Montorgueil, Le Café Noir, vers 18h00:

-- Naturellement, je finis mon stage...
-- Non non non, tu blagues!
-- Mais si, presque, oui!
-- Et ton weekend c'est bien passé?
-- Oui, pas mal... Hier, je me réveille, et puis hop! Je mets un jean, oui, je sors, et je me balade un peu... Je me suis assis sur un banc dans le jardin je-ne-sais-quoi. C'était vachement bon. J'ai ensuite pris le métro. Et j'ai croisé mon ex.
--- Bien bien bien!
-- Je regarde sur Internet sur mon portable pour ne pas la regarder. Elle portait des trucs comme ça, avec des rubans jusqu'à là.
-- Bon, bien voilà!
-- En tout cas, autre que ça, ce fut une journée assez délassante. Je suis resté bouquiner jusqu'au petit matin, au lit avec les fenêtres ouvertes.
-- C'était belle et bien une nuit étouffante quand même!
-- Finalement, je me suis endormi vers sept heures, mais c'était juste au moment que les travaux dans la rue en bas commençaient. J'ai tout de suite regretté avoir tellement veillé.
-- Voilà donc! Et moi, tout à l'heure, je bossais...
-- Écoute! Il commence à se rafraichir un peu...
-- On règle et on y va?
-- Bonne idée!

Les chats

 

Les amoureux fervents et les savants austères
Aiment également, dans leur mûre saison,
Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison,
Qui comme eux sont frileux et comme eux sédentaires.

Amis de la science et de la volupté
Ils cherchent le silence et l'horreur des ténèbres;
L'Erèbe les eût pris pour ses coursiers funèbres,
S'ils pouvaient au servage incliner leur fierté.

Ils prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes
Des grands sphinx allongés au fond des solitudes,
Qui semblent s'endormir dans un rêve sans fin;

Leurs reins féconds sont pleins d'étincelles magiques,
Et des parcelles d'or, ainsi qu'un sable fin,
Etoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques

(a poem by Charles Baudelaire)

Baguettes as junk food.

I’m craving a warm, somewhat crusty (but not too much), baguette. Alas, it’s almost midnight and all the boulangeries in Paris closed long ago. Baguettes have become my new junk food since I moved here. (What about croissants, you ask? Nice, but not as versatile.) In my opinion, the only thing that can possibly make me salivate as much as a warm baguette, that can also be enjoyed morning, noon, or night, and that pairs equally well with cheese, meat, or chocolate, is fresh, warm pita bread.

I just discovered that the french word copain comes from the Latin
cum pane; literally “with bread”. So, a true friend, according to the french, is therefore a person with whom you’d share your bread. (In Canada, a friend might perhaps be someone you’d let have the last beer.) That’s a big hint to the importance of bread to the collective psyche here. There have even been strikes in the past demanding the price of a baguette be capped and regulated by the government; though no mention of that (yet?) in the street demonstrations of late decrying the decline in “purchasing power”. One could be forgiven for thinking that the French invented bread, but it was probably the ancient Egyptians. However, few people have heard of aish baladi (the traditional pita bread), but everyone around the world knows what a baguette is!

Beautiful Life

Gui Boratto - "Beautiful Life".

I cut the cord; here I am in Paris.

Actually, I’ve been here for a couple weeks now. Though, on many levels, I’m here a little prematurely given “little” details like: my funding source in France is now in question (I’m on my own dime up to now) and important work projects have not been completed back in Toronto (raising the blood pressure of several individuals). But, too many things related to my move were set in motion a long time ago. So I made the leap; both across the Atlantic, but also of faith, that it will all work out…

My first few days felt a little odd, partly because it was a period when most are typically travelling to spend time with family, and here I was moving in the opposite direction. But, I do tend to do things against the current. (It’s more fun that way!) My trip and arrival were quite relaxing. The only thing that didn’t go according to plan was with my excess baggage. There were some interesting times on the phone with FedEx. I kid you not, it was the cheapest option, but thank goodness I did my shipment through a logistics company in the UK who, in the end, were the ones left on the hook for the supplementary 88 euros fee, due to a mistake by FedEx France.

Minus a few luxuries I had in Toronto (like storage space, wood floors and efficient heating), my new place is starting to feel like home. Despite the fact that it’s winter, I’m really enjoying the view from my little rooftop terrace; quite a novelty since I’ve never even had a balcony before. Another bonus is that the coffee machine makes excellent coffee – despite my bad touch at making coffee.

Of course, having moved, I’ve been getting a lot of New Year’s best wishes. In general, the reaction I’ve received from my contacts can be summarized as follows: (a) “how exciting to be moving to Paris”, (b) “but get ready for a lot of administrative red tape”, and (c) “but those Parisians can be quite rude/snobbish”. I have to say that I disagree with all of the above.

First of all, although I was looking forward to the move, it wasn’t so much Paris as such (though being surrounded by my mother tongue for the first time in my life is quite novel, even soothing), but the idea of leaving Canada for Europe. I think I could be happy in any major centre; I tend to make my own happiness.

When it comes to comments (b) and (c), I think those are just stereotypes, at least from what I’ve experienced up to now. True, the French are the kings of paperwork, but it’s all quite logical as long as you follow the instructions. In addition, this particular way of doing things has spawned an industry that creates, arguably, the most beautiful stationery and accessories. Finally, there doesn’t seem to be any more rudeness here than in any other big financial centre (Toronto, New York, etc.). Anywhere in the world when one happens to catch someone at a bad time (e.g., late for work) one is likely to get a curt reply; that’s nothing particularly Parisian. The only difference, I suppose, is that many people from around the world actually come here, to a city, for their vacations. Perhaps that’s where the stereotype started. It’s naturally expected by vacationers that everyone should be a friendly, ad hoc tourist guide. Although some are, like in any population of humans, some people are just less social than others. At least here my neighbours say “bonjour/bonsoir” when I run into them in the hall/stairwell/etc.

And, on that note, bonsoir!

To a brilliant woman in Toronto that I never met…

This is not about one particular woman, rather to that woman who I never had the opportunity to meet, for who fate conspired to keep us apart. As my head starts to wonder more about the details of my impending move to Paris, my heart is increasingly filled with a feeling that I can only approximate as a sort of sadness intertwined with loneliness; generally, I feel like I have failed. In my eight years in Toronto I have failed to meet you, that woman of my dreams. I'm not sure why I feel this way, but I really thought that you were here, somewhere, at some time, in Toronto. I really wish there was some reason to tie myself back to Toronto, some very strong emotional bond to tether me, to keep me flying strong, like a kite. It's not about the city itself, just the potential it had, if I had met you. Perhaps I did come across you, but didn't realise it. Perhaps I shyly looked away, discounting that skipped heartbeat upon gazing upon you as an irrational and very superficial crush; I have always discounted external female beauty, despite my obvious male nature to notice it. It's because I know that you are more than just beautiful, you are radiant, magnetic, angelic, mischievous, intriguing, captivating, strong... Yes, you are wonderful. But I never found you. I missed my chance. Some may say that it's great that I'm free as a bird, but I never wanted to fly alone, I wanted to fly in a pack, a flock of just two.

Two things that make living in a big city so great.

1. Lots of convenient sources to go buy fresh fruits and vegetables. There's something quite inspiring when browsing through the piles of colourful items -- partly a reminder of what beautiful things the earth can provide us, but for me the appeal is less philosophical and more gastronomic; I taste all the selection on display with my eyes, pondering what great meal/salad/dessert/snack concoctions I can come up with. It not only inspires the stomach, but also the brain. I come home from these encounters with fresh produce with the urge to do something creative or constructive, and not just related to food!

2. The after-work rush downtown. Not the morning rush, when many might be tired-eyed, harried, and dreading the workday ahead. Rather, I like watching people leave work downtown after 5PM. Some look relieved, some look happy, quite a few slow down their pace to enjoy the afternoon sun, many are reconnecting with friends, and even some couples emerge, holding hands while walking home. It is at this time of day that I most enjoy going to the local coffee shop and finding a seat at the window so that I can observe my favourite subjects walk by. I suppose that I'm partly attracted to watching this crowd as I'm not part of the "corporate" world myself, so it's almost as if I'm the visitor at the zoo enjoying the view of the "wildlife" passing by outside. And they're quite a handsome bunch, though of course I'll admit that I have a strong bias for the female of this species. In fact, I really like catching them smile. Smiles, as you might know, are quite rare in an urban setting. However, they seem to occur with increased frequency during this particular time of the day. If one is lucky, one will catch a woman smiling or laughing with her friends, or on the phone, and randomly turn her head towards you, the attentive observer behind the window. For that brief second, before her head turns back, you can share in her moment of happiness.

1968 - 2008: The anniversary of the fist salute

With the opening of the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing just days away, I was reflecting today on the Games that took place 40 years ago in Mexico City. Not being born at the time, when I think of those Olympics, only one moment stands out for me: the silent protest of the athletes at the medal ceremony for the 200 meter dash. It's a well known image, Tommie Smith (1st) and John Carlos (3rd) silently raising their fists during the playing of the US national anthem, symbolizing freedom and power over racism, head bowed down in prayer. I just bought a T-shirt online with stylised designs commemorating this event; I plan to wear it during this year's Olympics as my way to honour the message of those men.

Although its not well known, and hard to see from the images, both Smith and Carlos went shoeless on the podium to represent poverty. In addition, Peter Norman, the 2nd place winner from Australia, supported their protest statement by wearing a pin from the Olympic Project for Human Rights, the group the American duo was representing. Apparently, it was even Peter Norman's idea that the two Americans share the pair of black gloves; Tommie Smith wore the right, John Carlos the left.

There's was a certain elegance about this simple, hastily planned statement. Each had one square meter of real estate to themselves, that for one brief moment had the attention of the world. Sadly, the protest had negative repurcussions for the trio; most notably for Smith and Carlos who were expelled from the Olympic Village later that day and received death threats upon their return to the USA. (Norman, by comparison, was "only" prevented from participating at the following 1972 Summer Olympics, despite qualifying.) Though the gesture was meant to raise attention to the existence of inequality and to promote equal rights for minorities worldwide, not just in the United States, it was taken by many as symbolism related to aggression or of extremist factions of the Black Panthers, a US-based group which often had a reputation for violence at the time.

Interestingly, the raised clenched fist has symbolism for a wide range of groups to express solidarity, strength or defiance.

When life gets hectic, get a new toy!

As you can probably tell from the lack of posting lately, my life on the eighth floor in Toronto has been keeping me very busy lately. I've been workin' it at both eights; the office and the home. I'm generally not a workaholic, but I've been making a conscious push to finish a large, multi-year project that I affectionately call "the beast".

However, all work and no play is not what I'm about! Yesterday I got myself a new toy, an Oxygen8 USB MIDI controller. I've been hunting around for a long time for some sort of affordable MIDI/USB device to take my hobby electronic music composition to the next level (who am I kidding, I'm just one step above beginner). Sometimes it pays to keep a close watch of craigslist's for sale sections; I got a great deal on this second-hand toy.

For now, my plan is to use it in concert with my copy of FL Studio. It's early times, but there doesn't seem to be any setup necessary. It was recognised automatically as a MIDI input (as long as it is plugged into the USB port before the program loads) and piano key input works automatically whenever an instrument channel is highlighted. Assigning functions to the knobs on the controller is done by right-clicking on any setting or knob on the screen, whether it's instrument properties or a software plug-in.

An introduction to life on eight

Life on eight is a quiet, peaceful life. In the already incognito living that permeates downtown highrise life, an eighth floor address is even more so -- no high floor cachet, but higher than the dust and most street noise. It's high enough to have an interesting field of view, but not beyond the reach of a brisk stair climb (say, during a blackout). Sharing an elevator to floor number 8 is also just right: it gives passengers (neighbours) enough time for a quick hello and a friendly inquiry -- just enough to feel like a social human, but not enough time for awkward silences or fake chit-chat. I'm told that 8 is a lucky number in some oriental cultures. Luck, I don't know, but I do feel fortunate living at this level. Life on eight is good.