Business meeting held in a small town lost somewhere between France and Switzerland. Intermittent Internet connection, regular meals and lots of tea, coffee and snacks. There may be fifty of us around, mostly older than me. Managers, directors, you name them. Just few seem to be out of place as I am, others seem to love it. Hardly anyone wears a wedding ring, I noticed shortly and then just kept starring at people's fingers, obsessed, mesmerised.
Bonjour, monsieur. Bonsoir, monsieur. S'il vous plaît, monsieur.
They walk by and they nod nonchalantly and their suits seem to make them into a sort of weird mannequins they originally strived to be. Now they are. Flicking through their iPads, checking their Blackberries, playing buzzword bingo in a business lingo.
What kind of life is this? I could not see them walking around the lake or take photos of this sleepy spa town. And I'm stuck with them, too, without a possibility of parole. The shuttle will only arrive in three days.
Au revoir, monsieur. Bon voyage, monsieur.
I'm slightly melancholic as I'm watching the scenery when being driven to the airport. I'm glad when we take off. God forbid I'd ever become one of them.
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