Posts Tagged ‘internship’


[First, a shout-out!]

One thing that’s worthy of mention though is how much the INSEAD alumni rock. For a while, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep investing time and energy into networking in a city that I couldn’t see myself living in. But then I decided that talking to interesting people about mutual interests couldn’t hurt. It didn’t. Those who don’t stand you up at breakfast way the hell across town because of a hangover (We’re cool, mate. I’m pretty psyched about discovering a taste for Marmite) have been wonderfully helpful and eager to help. I’ve gotten a reply to all but one e-mail I’ve sent, and have gotten the chance to meet with a dozen or so alumni, who have been total rockstars. Thank you!

[Some sort of skillful segue goes here]

The summer is winding down. The lack of blogging is not so much correlated with the lack of activity in life – though much of it doesn’t seem blog-worthy. Or rather, much of it is not INSEAD- and MBA-related. Do the people who read this want to hear about the cockles in Whitstable, or about the bizarre, quirky sense of humor of Salinger (assigned reading from the boy I’ve been fake-dating all summer. Yeah, we’re cerebral like that…)? Probably not.

Less than one week before the London crew disperses to Fonty and Singapore. When I say crew, I mean the three people out of forty that I’ve actually hung out with. The rest have been drinking L14 cocktails at rooftop bars from which many a banker have plunged to their deaths.

I can hardly wait to get out of this angry, mean, overpopulated, overpriced yuppie hell and get back to the idyllic life in Fontainebleau. I’m exaggerating on all counts here, of course. In the recent weeks London and I haven’t quite gotten to be friends. But the weather has stabilized to something almost pleasant, I love the rotunda of the British museum, the art installation in the vaults by London Bridge I saw last Friday was whack-ass (in an amazing sort of way), and I haven’t gotten into any fights with any bus drivers in at least 96 hours. I’d say we’re moving toward becoming solid frenemies.

I thought I could trade baguettes for convenience and macarons for culture, but found that I couldn’t keep up with the pace of life here, with the deafening noise, the crowds, the lack of personal space, the constant assault on all senses. Too much heart, some would say.

I can’t wait to see my BFFs back from Singapore, to reconnect with friends I’ve missed over the two month break, to pick up the almost-friendships that started to develop in P3, to my personal space (own bathroom, my fabulous kitchen knife). I know I’m over-romanticizing France right now. I haven’t quite forgotten the fact that Je ne parle pas a squat of French or that the Monoprix closes before class is done on most days. Oh, and the fact that we’re not coming back to sit and watch the world go by on a picnic spread by the reflecting pool. We’re coming back to kick off the recruiting season.

I’ve been trying to convince myself that this summer internship – or rather 6 weeks spent googling various combinations of words (aka market research) – job will help me transition into doing the next thing. But it’s more likely that the summer internship has helped me realize that the ‘next thing’ is not actually the thing that I thought I wanted to do. Well, all good learnings. After fiddling with the resume format this way and that, I decided that the current internship was not worthy of displacing another activity I’m more proud of. So, it’s like it never happened. Plausible deniability?

I know I’ll look through the hazy veil of memory, and remember the time I’ve spent in London as fun and adventurous and larger than life. Rather than ‘claustrophobic’, I’ll remember feeling ‘alive’. Rather than ‘constantly angry’, I’ll remember feeling ‘exhilarated and inspired’. I’ll be driving my SUV through Virginia suburbs, taking my fertility treatment twins to soccer practice and tell them stories of, ‘back when mom was young and lived amidst squalor in London’ – and it’ll all be terribly romantic – but for now, I’m ready to get outta here.


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:: Look Right. Look Left. Sometimes you’ll still manage to look the wrong way, and a double decker bus running a red light will come two inches from running you down. The only thing that saves you is that the crowd collectively gasps. At which point you just start bawling in the fucking middle of Oxford Street. Not because you almost got killed. But for all the other reasons life is confusing/hectic/sad/unsettled right now and you’ve been wanting a good cry for a while. I’m just saying: it could happen, so look right first.

:: The Paul on Marylebone High Street has Chausson Pomme, not Chausson Aux Pomme. Not sure what gives. I’ve been craving one for a week now and felt particularly smug pronouncing the ‘aux’ this morning. Tasted like the real deal too. Shouldn’t make it a habit at £1.70 and a stick of butter for breakfast. And anyway, according to a Frenchman INSEADer also in London, Paul in Paris is for subway stations. Paul in London tries to be fancy. The lesson here might be that abroad I’m brand illiterate.

:: Burkas are totally in this summer. Everyone in Hyde Park is wearing one. Only £7 at Primark. Black only.

:: Londoners hate lunch. This is my conclusion in face of the overabundance of really well-branded lunch places and the level of art to which the triangle sandwich has been elevated. All the Wasabis, the Pret-a-Mangers, the Eats, the Itsus – they’re all a testament of London’s loathing of lunch. Don’t get me wrong; Itsu’s miso-based dumpling soup with toasted pumkin seeds is divine. Hating lunch is not the same as hating food, though I cringe at the sight of apples shrink wrapped to death and pre-bagged portions of broccolini that make you feel pathetically lonely. They seem to be saying, ‘if you had friends, you’d be dining out.’ Well, fuck you, broccollini. Who cares what you think, you fucking veggie?


But lunch here is not an event. It’s not a time to make conversation. You go and pick up your crawfish, rocket, garlic aioli, whole grain bread triangle sandwich. Then you hurriedly stuff it in your face at your desk.

Maybe I’m just getting sentimental about lunches in the park in the summertime and lunches at a huge communal tables made from reclaimed bowling lanes at my old firm. Lunch was done when the conversation ended, not when you finished your food. I miss lunch.

:: Pubs have the most bizarre compound names that involve two unrelated, incongruous words. The Bear & Lettuce, the Hog & Arms, the Ship & Shovel, the Lamb & Pilgrim, the Swan & Fiddle. I’m still on the lookout for one to call my own.

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Last night it intermittently pissed and poured as I pushed my way through the crowds on Oxford Street – trying to steer clear of short people with umbrellas, swinging them dangerously at eye level – on my way to meet a friend in Notting Hill . I swung by Primark in order to buy a couple of sweaters; this morning I spent some time reading their CSR policy to find out whether they had slum children in Jakarta making the rain jackets that retail for £7 and shirts at 2 for £1.96. Seemingly no, but I remain dubious.

I missed the heat wave by a week and since my arrival have enjoyed some combination of gusting wind, occasional sun and pissing rain – usually all three alternating every 2 hours. It’s no wonder the Brits talk about the weather so much. It’s just as well, since I’m spending the summer at a desk instead of on one of those striped lounge chairs you can rent in the park.

I really want to fall in love with this place – I really do. If nothing else, than to justify having spent all this time, effort and money trying to end up here. I’ve felt the stirrings of London love when I had come to visit the then-boyf back in P1, but I wonder if I wasn’t just mirroring his own resolve to love everything about his new home. I didn’t quite expect that coming here would bring back all the hurt and resentment that I feel because of the lack of closure in that great love affair that ended so abruptly. In the relative isolation of the Fontainebleau forest, and the busyness of life in P3, I didn’t give myself time to be upset about the breakup. Now, it seems I have too much time on my hands.

London, I’m looking to foist upon you my misplaced emotions. I can overlook your bad teeth and your crazy crowds (as an aside, I’m convinced that the driving on the wrong side of the road causes chaos on the sidewalks – in most other cities, you walk on the right, pass on the left. Here, the pedestrian areas are a mess). I will stop complaining about your scaly water and can maybe even suck up paying £750 per month to share a bathroom between three people (well, for another 5 weeks, and then NEVER again). Eventually, I might swap my z’s for s’s and even start putting extra u’s into words that don’t require them (colour, humour, rumour) and get over feeling embarrassed about my totally obvious American accent and accept the fact that British men weren’t brought up to hold doors. I’ll even look up some cricket stats so I can relate to the boys at the office. I’ll do this in favor of the tranquil gardens with crazy looking blue-beeked water fowl, and the free art galleries, and the mushy peas, and big mugs of coffee, and English fry-ups, and concerts in the park.

It’s just that at the moment, my powers of self-delusion are failing me. It’s not you, it’s me. Give me some time, okay?

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Last night I had settled in and commenced “freaking the fuck out”. Wondering why I’m here, instead of just about anywhere else. Where I really want to be is home with people (and cat) I love and care about. I’d even settle for back in the French countryside where I’ve loved whiling the last few days away in the blossoming garden of a friend’s villa, listening to her stories, and laughing what felt like continuously and a little too loudly.

Maybe last night’s pissing rain was a sign of good luck for the journey ahead. Maybe living in this shit apartment with its peeling walls and its scary shrieking water heater will be great fodder for the novel I one day write about my quarter life crisis.

I called an amigo who’s doing an internship in a developing country and requested some Skype therapy. He’s having a genuinely magical summer. Not the fun and high-flying stuff you want to capture in a photo and put on facebook so that everyone else at INSEAD can see how your summer is so much cooler than their summer. But a summer of experiences that cannot be related. The conversations that last until the wee hours of the morning and have nothing to do with who’s-hooking-up-with-whom INSEAD gossip. Eating exotic fruits you don’t know the names of. Waking up with nothing to do but read Borges and stroll to the seaside market to buy clams.

I had the same panicked, sinking feeling when I first got to Fonty, which didn’t serve me well. So this morning I woke up and resolved to make this town mine.

Step 1: food. The nearest Marks&Spencer is three blocks away. The Tesco is closer, but I still have my self-respect. Soho is walking distance and has tasty pork belly. I’m still on the lookout for a Waitrose and the odd farmers’ market. The coffee is served in large cups. Heaven.

Step 2: classical music. The BBC Proms start this Friday, I’ve book-marked all the schedules for other venues and I have a list of Evensong services to attend for every night of the week.

Step 3: Art. The Royal Academy of Art Summer Exhibition blew my mind. I resolve to use this summer to make up for my philistine ways of the past six months.

It’s going to be okay. Oh, and I start my job tomorrow. Collated copies and coffee, oh boy!

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