While last weekend seems somewhat far away after the week I've had, the trip to Flims was truly an amazing experience. It was my work's Christmas *slash* 75th anniversary bash and within about 30 seconds of arriving at Waldhaus (our fantastic 5* hotel) I knew I had timed my secondment to perfection. The week before had been relatively stormy but the skies were clear, the sun was shining and the snow (brought by the mid-week storm) added a Christmassy-touch delightful to a humble Englishman like me. Of course, I twist the truth here to be more dramatic: by the time we had arrived it was already dark and our trip was relatively arduous (two hour delay due to snow at the we-never-shut-because-of-snow-sleet-or-wind Helsinki-Vantaa airport and the pleasures of flying Blue1). However, when I woke up the following day and heading over to the lobby for breakfast, I was truly in love.
I've been meaning to compile a list of cultural differences for sometime now. When I do, here's one I'll definitely add to my list: drinking songs. Yes, we probably have drinking songs in England, and I probably don't drink enough (or socially enough) to know about them. Indeed I'm pretty sure the Scots must have at least some drinking songs (maybe an adaption of a Burns' poem – but hopefully not). But we definitely don't distribute hymn sheets prior to a traditional black tie event, we definitely don't have ice-cold vodka shots (aka Schnapps) ready on our tables, and we definitely don't engage in rapturous, deep-throated and jocund singing. So much singing went on that I barely had time to finish my dinner. (By the way, I've noticed recently that every time I write the word "finish" I end up writing "finnish". I personally blame Leila White's From Start to Finnish for this particular transgression.) Of course, we all got terribly intoxicated, and of course, I adhered strictly to my work's strict RESPECT THE PRIVACY OF YOUR COLLEAGUES [especially when they are intoxicated] policy, so here is another perfectly innocent and wholly-beautiful picture of Flims.
We also went curling. This is a sport that I understood is popular among certain Scots and which looks incredibly easy on TV (it's like boules on ice and we all know that boules is best described as a past time and not a sport) but which turns out to be incredibly difficult in real life. Luckily I escaped with only my masculinity damaged. One of my colleagues dislocated his shoulder on the ice. Sure glad that wasn't me. Again, I did take one or two amusing photographs, but, since we were probably over the legal limit, I will respect the privacy of my colleagues once again. So here's another uncontroversial picture, this time of the curling hall.
I've been meaning to compile a list of cultural differences for sometime now. When I do, here's one I'll definitely add to my list: drinking songs. Yes, we probably have drinking songs in England, and I probably don't drink enough (or socially enough) to know about them. Indeed I'm pretty sure the Scots must have at least some drinking songs (maybe an adaption of a Burns' poem – but hopefully not). But we definitely don't distribute hymn sheets prior to a traditional black tie event, we definitely don't have ice-cold vodka shots (aka Schnapps) ready on our tables, and we definitely don't engage in rapturous, deep-throated and jocund singing. So much singing went on that I barely had time to finish my dinner. (By the way, I've noticed recently that every time I write the word "finish" I end up writing "finnish". I personally blame Leila White's From Start to Finnish for this particular transgression.) Of course, we all got terribly intoxicated, and of course, I adhered strictly to my work's strict RESPECT THE PRIVACY OF YOUR COLLEAGUES [especially when they are intoxicated] policy, so here is another perfectly innocent and wholly-beautiful picture of Flims.
We also went curling. This is a sport that I understood is popular among certain Scots and which looks incredibly easy on TV (it's like boules on ice and we all know that boules is best described as a past time and not a sport) but which turns out to be incredibly difficult in real life. Luckily I escaped with only my masculinity damaged. One of my colleagues dislocated his shoulder on the ice. Sure glad that wasn't me. Again, I did take one or two amusing photographs, but, since we were probably over the legal limit, I will respect the privacy of my colleagues once again. So here's another uncontroversial picture, this time of the curling hall.
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