My inevitable and inexorable drive to return to Brussels appears to be on track for an August move, as I head to De Hoofdstad van Europa to sign a job contract and, potentially, find a flat to move into as well.
While saying farewell to Shell was more pleasant than painful for a number of reasons, I can say I left behind many more friends than I left problems. I would assert that my enjoyable--and occasionally raucous--farewell dinner at Den Haag's excellent Cafe Rootz was testament of a year that was largely-if intermittently-a mutual success.
Many thanks to all of my Shell friends, and I look forward to welcoming you (and all of my readers) to Belgium soon.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
EMELI '08
EMELI
In addition to winding down at Shell, the last few months have been occupied by my leadership of an event that was potentially quite risky for me--the Europe Middle East Leadership Institute for the International Association of Business Communicators (IABC).
I had been an IABC member intermittently since 2002, and often a public critic of the Association's overall direction. But at the same time, as the biggest international association of communications pros, IABC offers a degree of collegial depth that makes active participation worth it even if there are disagreements and items needing change.
Indeed, one of the great things about a room full of communicators is that they instinctively get what leadership and change are all about. So, in convening EMELI at Amsterdam's ABC Tree House conference center (a phenomenal self-service venue in the heart of the city) the challenge of understanding the change in mindset and tone required to take a 650 member association to 1000 members within two years was one, I think, which produced more light than heat.
I do despise event planning. And this event stretched me. But I see a major change--perhaps even a full-blown paradigm shift--has taken place within a group of very smart people. I'm glad to have taken the lead, and am pleased I will be leading EMELI'09 as well.
In addition to winding down at Shell, the last few months have been occupied by my leadership of an event that was potentially quite risky for me--the Europe Middle East Leadership Institute for the International Association of Business Communicators (IABC).
I had been an IABC member intermittently since 2002, and often a public critic of the Association's overall direction. But at the same time, as the biggest international association of communications pros, IABC offers a degree of collegial depth that makes active participation worth it even if there are disagreements and items needing change.
Indeed, one of the great things about a room full of communicators is that they instinctively get what leadership and change are all about. So, in convening EMELI at Amsterdam's ABC Tree House conference center (a phenomenal self-service venue in the heart of the city) the challenge of understanding the change in mindset and tone required to take a 650 member association to 1000 members within two years was one, I think, which produced more light than heat.
I do despise event planning. And this event stretched me. But I see a major change--perhaps even a full-blown paradigm shift--has taken place within a group of very smart people. I'm glad to have taken the lead, and am pleased I will be leading EMELI'09 as well.
Unfinished Business: My Letter to the Welsh Rugby Union
As you may imagine, as I prepare to move to another EU country, I have enormous gratitude to the United Kingdom for having granted me a passport that allows me to live and work in any EU nation.
There is one other benefit to such naturalisation, one which I had yet to take up, and as I approach my 43rd birthday next month, it is one whose value is nearing it's sell by date. I am requesting it in the letter below:
18 July 2008
Mr Davies (or is it Mr. Jones, Williams or Rhys)
Fearless Leader
Welsh Rugby Union
Millennium Stadium, Arms Park
Cardiff, Wales
Dear Sir,
I apologise for the tardiness of this letter.
Four years ago, I was awarded British Citizenship. But I only learned recently that naturalisation as a British citizen allowed me to declare my eligibility for one of the four British sporting nations-England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and, of course, the Principality of Wales.
I would like to declare my intention to declare my eligibility for Wales, and request due consideration to become the captain of the Welsh rugby side.
Sure, Wales has met with much success on the pitch, with your stunning thrashing of all comers in this year's Six Nations. And it is true that my playing experience, consisting of 10 minutes of actual play in Second Row while a student at London Business School, does not on the surface amount to much.
But what I can offer is access to a whole new market. An American-"Welsh" captain like me could sell a lot of shirts in the US. Plus, having a short, overweight, slow, aging Jewish guy on the pitch will require you to get even more out of your other players to keep them in peak position.
I realise my proposition would be risky for such a world class rugby country as Wales. But my debt to your principality--for bringing Brains Ale, Shirley Bassey, and Tom Jones to the masses--and for producing the best in-stadium singing on the planet--is such that I would be most remiss if I wilted from the challenge of offering my leadership, commitment, and bodily health to your cause.
You have my eternal loyalty.
Welshly,
Mike Klein
There is one other benefit to such naturalisation, one which I had yet to take up, and as I approach my 43rd birthday next month, it is one whose value is nearing it's sell by date. I am requesting it in the letter below:
18 July 2008
Mr Davies (or is it Mr. Jones, Williams or Rhys)
Fearless Leader
Welsh Rugby Union
Millennium Stadium, Arms Park
Cardiff, Wales
Dear Sir,
I apologise for the tardiness of this letter.
Four years ago, I was awarded British Citizenship. But I only learned recently that naturalisation as a British citizen allowed me to declare my eligibility for one of the four British sporting nations-England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and, of course, the Principality of Wales.
I would like to declare my intention to declare my eligibility for Wales, and request due consideration to become the captain of the Welsh rugby side.
Sure, Wales has met with much success on the pitch, with your stunning thrashing of all comers in this year's Six Nations. And it is true that my playing experience, consisting of 10 minutes of actual play in Second Row while a student at London Business School, does not on the surface amount to much.
But what I can offer is access to a whole new market. An American-"Welsh" captain like me could sell a lot of shirts in the US. Plus, having a short, overweight, slow, aging Jewish guy on the pitch will require you to get even more out of your other players to keep them in peak position.
I realise my proposition would be risky for such a world class rugby country as Wales. But my debt to your principality--for bringing Brains Ale, Shirley Bassey, and Tom Jones to the masses--and for producing the best in-stadium singing on the planet--is such that I would be most remiss if I wilted from the challenge of offering my leadership, commitment, and bodily health to your cause.
You have my eternal loyalty.
Welshly,
Mike Klein
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Into Antalya's Embrace
The escape from the all-inclusive hell of the Orfeus Park was swift and painless. Rather than just leave, I checked out, thus letting them know they had three nights of a free room to resell. Still, I encountered a bit of shock (You are leaving?!? Where will you go?!?), before the clerk said good bye and pointed me to the nearby minibus stop.
A minibus, bus and taxi ride and 16 Euros later, I arrived at a little hotel that can best be described as a bit of paradise, the La Paloma Pansiyon in Antalya's old city. Here, EUR 35 buys me a faithfully restored, air conditioned double with free wireless internet and a modest breakfast buffet. But best of all was the pool situated in the courtyard with a pool bar selling. reasonably priced drinks in congenial company.
Arrival at the La Paloma signalled the beginning of the vacation part of my vacation, the previous days being far more of an ontological obstacle course. Suddenly, I lack plans or intentions above and beyond which much-taste Turkish treats I have still to indulge in before my departure on Wednesday midnight.
What makes the La Paloma really work is the woodwork and foliage--it was an Ottoman mansion and still very much looks the part, down to the lush foliage in the poolside courtyard. Its neighborhood is a bit mixed, comprised largely of similar hostelries, restaurants and architectural sites of varying levels of repair.
Beyond Hadrian's Gate is the city's modern commercial centre, offering goods of varying degrees of brand authenticity and numerous grills and restaurants serving often-fantastic renditions of Turkey's national dishes.
I don't feel compelled to explore. The combination of climate, chatter and chaise lounges at poolside allow me to have the downshift that the culmination of a hard-fought year of consulting and an equally hard-fought six month job search have richly earned me in my relatively generous estimation.
Still, the city beckons--certain basics like cash machines (La Paloma doesn't take plastic), filter coffee (most establishments here offer the all or nothing choice of strong Turkish or rough instant), and restaurants with a local clientele.
Quickly, I find a cross between a street and a food court, with stands selling Iskender and the natural Doner kebabs side by side, most with the telltale wood fire of true professionals. Sampiyon was the best Iskender, Sultan the best doner, and Ozdemiz the best airconditioned place to sample both.
With the abundance of historic buildings, there may be a temptation to hire a freelance local guide, particularly if a reasonable fee is agreed beforehand. My experience was not salutary, even after throwing in lunch and a tip, my 'guide' not only insisted on €20 more than agreed, but also was demanding I 'change' an additional €50 at a busy intersection, a transaction with potentially hairy implications.
I said "that's enough" and walked in the other direction. Mercifully, I was not followed, and proceeded to buy sneakers with velcro straps instead of laces (shoelaces being a perennial nemesis of mine since early childhood) at a fair discount over Low Countries prices.. What goes around, comes around, so they say.
While Antalya is now a city of 800,000 plus, with easily 100,000 seasonal 'residents', it had barely 250,000 in the 1980s, accounting for its relatively small historic center and comparatively puny football stadium, named for the nation's "father" and everpresent icon, Kemal Ataturk.
The question I ponder, aside from its convenience as an alternative to the five-star nightmare that was the Orfeus Park, is whether Antalya is worth a visit in its own right?
I wouldn't choose Antalya as my first helping of Turkey. Istanbul is much more compelling, Bodrum much more welcoming to the English-speaking traveller. But what Antalya has going for it is a combination of a well-contained historic center, congenial and cheap poolside lodgings, tangible urban buzz and proximity to excellent beach and water journeys. To chill out for a week, I'd certainly return to Antalya and particularly the excellent La Paloma.
A minibus, bus and taxi ride and 16 Euros later, I arrived at a little hotel that can best be described as a bit of paradise, the La Paloma Pansiyon in Antalya's old city. Here, EUR 35 buys me a faithfully restored, air conditioned double with free wireless internet and a modest breakfast buffet. But best of all was the pool situated in the courtyard with a pool bar selling. reasonably priced drinks in congenial company.
Arrival at the La Paloma signalled the beginning of the vacation part of my vacation, the previous days being far more of an ontological obstacle course. Suddenly, I lack plans or intentions above and beyond which much-taste Turkish treats I have still to indulge in before my departure on Wednesday midnight.
What makes the La Paloma really work is the woodwork and foliage--it was an Ottoman mansion and still very much looks the part, down to the lush foliage in the poolside courtyard. Its neighborhood is a bit mixed, comprised largely of similar hostelries, restaurants and architectural sites of varying levels of repair.
Beyond Hadrian's Gate is the city's modern commercial centre, offering goods of varying degrees of brand authenticity and numerous grills and restaurants serving often-fantastic renditions of Turkey's national dishes.
I don't feel compelled to explore. The combination of climate, chatter and chaise lounges at poolside allow me to have the downshift that the culmination of a hard-fought year of consulting and an equally hard-fought six month job search have richly earned me in my relatively generous estimation.
Still, the city beckons--certain basics like cash machines (La Paloma doesn't take plastic), filter coffee (most establishments here offer the all or nothing choice of strong Turkish or rough instant), and restaurants with a local clientele.
Quickly, I find a cross between a street and a food court, with stands selling Iskender and the natural Doner kebabs side by side, most with the telltale wood fire of true professionals. Sampiyon was the best Iskender, Sultan the best doner, and Ozdemiz the best airconditioned place to sample both.
With the abundance of historic buildings, there may be a temptation to hire a freelance local guide, particularly if a reasonable fee is agreed beforehand. My experience was not salutary, even after throwing in lunch and a tip, my 'guide' not only insisted on €20 more than agreed, but also was demanding I 'change' an additional €50 at a busy intersection, a transaction with potentially hairy implications.
I said "that's enough" and walked in the other direction. Mercifully, I was not followed, and proceeded to buy sneakers with velcro straps instead of laces (shoelaces being a perennial nemesis of mine since early childhood) at a fair discount over Low Countries prices.. What goes around, comes around, so they say.
While Antalya is now a city of 800,000 plus, with easily 100,000 seasonal 'residents', it had barely 250,000 in the 1980s, accounting for its relatively small historic center and comparatively puny football stadium, named for the nation's "father" and everpresent icon, Kemal Ataturk.
The question I ponder, aside from its convenience as an alternative to the five-star nightmare that was the Orfeus Park, is whether Antalya is worth a visit in its own right?
I wouldn't choose Antalya as my first helping of Turkey. Istanbul is much more compelling, Bodrum much more welcoming to the English-speaking traveller. But what Antalya has going for it is a combination of a well-contained historic center, congenial and cheap poolside lodgings, tangible urban buzz and proximity to excellent beach and water journeys. To chill out for a week, I'd certainly return to Antalya and particularly the excellent La Paloma.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Turkey--First Impressions and Last Resorts
After an uneventful four hour Corendon Airlines flight from Schiphol to the seaside city of Antalya, from which 9mg of melatonin and a pre-flight Westmalle Tripel yielded a mere 90 minutes of unconsciousness, I stumble through customs to the tour representatives waiting under the canopy outside the brand-new terminal.
"Orfeus Park", said the rep. I had not noticed the Orfeus Park in my numerous trawls through the hotel brochures for the Turkish Riviera. Having brought the Corendon catalogue, I looked it up, and saw that it had "4.5 stars.". I was too tired to resist at the moment-but I had paid for 5 stars, and not 4.5...
The hour-long ride from the airport followed an imposing ridge on the left, over which a Turkish sunrise was brewing. Much was new along the road, including the petrol stations of a recent former client jostling for position against mostly local competion.
The Orfeus was more of a disappointment than a shock--it bears much more resemblance to an old-school mid-tier suburban motel (albeit with a bigger pool and buffet) than a top-tier mediterrenean resort. If I had wanted a three star, I'd have had no complaint, and indeed, if pressed, I could stay here and make extensive use of the pricey but prevalent excursions offered by Corendon. But since Corendon 'upgraded' the place to 5 stars sınce the annual brochure's last printıng redress was not to be expected.
Still when the opportunity presented itself to gun for an upgrade, the visit of the Corendon rep offered brief hope. Alas, all of the rooms in the Corendon stable were, as the Turks would say, occupado.
So, rather than spend the day surrounded by the ubiquıtous kinder of the Orfeus' preponderance of German guests, I hopped one of Turkey's famous 'Dolmus' minibuses to the nearby market town of Manavgat. Manavgat, aside from being near a waterfall which prompted a two hour bus+boat trip with yet more German tourists, is a busy but not terribly consequential sort of place, best known for a covered market selling a wide variety of crappy counterfeit goods. In short, the Turkey I love.
There are many things I adore about this country--an attractive and confident population, a sense of self-containedness one finds in a country of 70 million plus, the residue of decades of protectionism and state ownership (lots of funky locally made cars, mostly Fiat knockoffs), the sports fanaticism, evidenced by the more abundant than usual Turkish flags and national team logos from their better-than-expected run in Euro 2008.
As for the turbulent politics, the unavailabiliity of English language news in these parts makes me a bystander as the military and the Islamic-leaning (but rather tame) ruling party duke it out in the courts....
With the prospect of jostling tattooed teutonics for pool or beach space lacking much appeal, I book excursions for the next two days, one to Antalya and the other a boat tour from Alanya, the main tourist town. Both were most enjoyable, the Antalya trip marked by a purchase of a Swiss watch made in part because I fell for the watch and in part because I fell for the lovely Birsen, the saleswoman who counts an encyclopedic knowledge of her native Belgium among her charms. Still, thanks to my Blackberry's ability to summon "watches at Amazon.com", I was able to secure an extra 30% discount over what was offered, making it a deal to, well, write home about.
Midway through the boat ride on Saturday, I decide to depart from the Orfeus on Sunday for Antalya for the trip's duration. I know that it's not good form to write off EUR 200 in food, drink, and lodging, but I have had nothing to do in the evenings other than listening to teutonic tots singing "Zam, zam, goolie, goolie" to each other through my non-soundproofed windows, or to be the only guy propping up the bar while the German men were pouring cola into beers and taking them to their respective family tables (I never figured out whether the cola beers were for the menschen or the kiınder--and wasn't about to ask). The garden cafes of Antalya seem more promising, even if I have to pay EUR 2 for a local brew.
But first, I decide to spend this evening in the town of Side.
Side begins inauspiciously--a dense conurbation of mid-rise apartments, hotels and resorts with random looking retail establishments. Suddenly, a spot of greenery emerges and after confirming 'antik Side' with the driver of the minibus festooned with Muslim prayers but lacking in shoulder belts, I disembark and follow the crowds. The ruins that unfold are eyepopping. Gates, columns and suddenly, a full blown amphitheatre. Relics and retail thrive side by side in Side, so soon comes the usual carnival of brand knockoffs, jewelry shops and kebab stands.
Seeing the doner kebab spıit rotating against the backdrop of a wood fire, I yield to temptation upon reaching the Ugur Doner place on the main drag. I order the Iskender, a tomato-sauced doner dinner. Best I've had in a decade, and a full meal including soft drink and salad comes out to EUR 8. They even threw in a turkish coffee after I gushed about my meal, then dragged me into the kitchen to take pictures with the kitchen staff.
"Orfeus Park", said the rep. I had not noticed the Orfeus Park in my numerous trawls through the hotel brochures for the Turkish Riviera. Having brought the Corendon catalogue, I looked it up, and saw that it had "4.5 stars.". I was too tired to resist at the moment-but I had paid for 5 stars, and not 4.5...
The hour-long ride from the airport followed an imposing ridge on the left, over which a Turkish sunrise was brewing. Much was new along the road, including the petrol stations of a recent former client jostling for position against mostly local competion.
The Orfeus was more of a disappointment than a shock--it bears much more resemblance to an old-school mid-tier suburban motel (albeit with a bigger pool and buffet) than a top-tier mediterrenean resort. If I had wanted a three star, I'd have had no complaint, and indeed, if pressed, I could stay here and make extensive use of the pricey but prevalent excursions offered by Corendon. But since Corendon 'upgraded' the place to 5 stars sınce the annual brochure's last printıng redress was not to be expected.
Still when the opportunity presented itself to gun for an upgrade, the visit of the Corendon rep offered brief hope. Alas, all of the rooms in the Corendon stable were, as the Turks would say, occupado.
So, rather than spend the day surrounded by the ubiquıtous kinder of the Orfeus' preponderance of German guests, I hopped one of Turkey's famous 'Dolmus' minibuses to the nearby market town of Manavgat. Manavgat, aside from being near a waterfall which prompted a two hour bus+boat trip with yet more German tourists, is a busy but not terribly consequential sort of place, best known for a covered market selling a wide variety of crappy counterfeit goods. In short, the Turkey I love.
There are many things I adore about this country--an attractive and confident population, a sense of self-containedness one finds in a country of 70 million plus, the residue of decades of protectionism and state ownership (lots of funky locally made cars, mostly Fiat knockoffs), the sports fanaticism, evidenced by the more abundant than usual Turkish flags and national team logos from their better-than-expected run in Euro 2008.
As for the turbulent politics, the unavailabiliity of English language news in these parts makes me a bystander as the military and the Islamic-leaning (but rather tame) ruling party duke it out in the courts....
With the prospect of jostling tattooed teutonics for pool or beach space lacking much appeal, I book excursions for the next two days, one to Antalya and the other a boat tour from Alanya, the main tourist town. Both were most enjoyable, the Antalya trip marked by a purchase of a Swiss watch made in part because I fell for the watch and in part because I fell for the lovely Birsen, the saleswoman who counts an encyclopedic knowledge of her native Belgium among her charms. Still, thanks to my Blackberry's ability to summon "watches at Amazon.com", I was able to secure an extra 30% discount over what was offered, making it a deal to, well, write home about.
Midway through the boat ride on Saturday, I decide to depart from the Orfeus on Sunday for Antalya for the trip's duration. I know that it's not good form to write off EUR 200 in food, drink, and lodging, but I have had nothing to do in the evenings other than listening to teutonic tots singing "Zam, zam, goolie, goolie" to each other through my non-soundproofed windows, or to be the only guy propping up the bar while the German men were pouring cola into beers and taking them to their respective family tables (I never figured out whether the cola beers were for the menschen or the kiınder--and wasn't about to ask). The garden cafes of Antalya seem more promising, even if I have to pay EUR 2 for a local brew.
But first, I decide to spend this evening in the town of Side.
Side begins inauspiciously--a dense conurbation of mid-rise apartments, hotels and resorts with random looking retail establishments. Suddenly, a spot of greenery emerges and after confirming 'antik Side' with the driver of the minibus festooned with Muslim prayers but lacking in shoulder belts, I disembark and follow the crowds. The ruins that unfold are eyepopping. Gates, columns and suddenly, a full blown amphitheatre. Relics and retail thrive side by side in Side, so soon comes the usual carnival of brand knockoffs, jewelry shops and kebab stands.
Seeing the doner kebab spıit rotating against the backdrop of a wood fire, I yield to temptation upon reaching the Ugur Doner place on the main drag. I order the Iskender, a tomato-sauced doner dinner. Best I've had in a decade, and a full meal including soft drink and salad comes out to EUR 8. They even threw in a turkish coffee after I gushed about my meal, then dragged me into the kitchen to take pictures with the kitchen staff.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Coming Home
Last month saw a number of ‘reunions’ for me, not only the London Business School MBA98 reunion that just occurred this past weekend, but also a number of reacquaintances occasioned by the wedding of my “Little Brother” John Wirtz from my Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity days at the University of Wisconsin.
Seeing Wirtz get married to Lynn Weissenstein was quite a joy, even though I proved unusually sensitive to the champagne served at the evening reception (hint: that’s what the hors d’ouevres are for). Wirtz and I go back over 20 years, and our paths crossed on a number of occasions in
Coming back to
Going Home
No, the city calling me home is that ever-so-seductive and glorious Hoofdstad de l’Europe,
The emotional twinge I get when I step off a train in
I’ll make a full announcement soon, and send out invites to a housewarming in due course. I am very much looking forward to, finally, making my home in
M&W: More Reconnections
Zigzagging across the Atlantic, one of the real high points of the trip was to see M&W, two other friends from my days at the
Both M&W were extremely engaging—M was a Slavic studies major at Wisconsin, as befitting her Polish background and fluency in her ancestral language (and it was a priceless moment when we both recognized that the single laughter trigger of a Polish joke is that the Pole would do the exact opposite of what was normal and expected) She now imports Christmas ornaments into the US.
W is now an attorney in
What was amazing about my conversations with both M&W is that they felt like a warm bath—twenty years of absence melting away in seconds, with an effortless flow of ideas, shared struggles, suggestions and reflections emanating from hour to hour. M&I had world-class wings at Buffalo Joes in my hometown of Evanston, Illinois (a Chicago suburb); W&I opted for sushi and then Belgian beers at the world famous Von Trier’s tavern on Milwaukee’s east side.
The Magical Mystery Tour
No, it’s not actually a tour. But in little over an hour, I’ll be leaving for
Here’s the deal. I know I am flying to
Sure, I will have my own room, having suspended dating activity pending my Belgian move. But I have know idea whether I will end up in a hotel in a town or on an isolated cove, or whether my fellow guests will be Nederlanders, Germans, Israelis, or Russians, all groups known to favor the Turkish Med (Brits prefer the Turkish Aegean, and Americans are rare in Euro package-tourism land).
Still, the mystery makes the topic ever so bloggable. So, over the next nine days, expect frequent dispatches from the beach…from where I will also fill you in on the LBS MBA98
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