gingerandjohn.com

I haven't talked yet about why we're here in Belfast - this is a personal blog, I'm pretty sure I know all of the visitors here IRL, and I don't like to talk too much about company business here. But I've had an interesting few weeks, and am relaxing these a bit. For a bit of background, here's a synopsis:
* My company doesn't hire ahead of sales.
* Typically, only market participants are allowed API access to wholesale power markets (even sandboxes).
* New market development, then, can only happen as part of an implementation.
* New market development, because it's done for many clients (ideally), is done by developers rather than implementation staff.
* There's no implementation staff to do the work anyway (see first bullet).

So about three years ago, I started traveling to clients to do a combination of implementation and new market system development for the company. Last November, I got pulled into a sales trip to Dublin and Belfast - we were trying to get into the newly-forming All Island Market. We didn't get the Dublin one, but we did get the Belfast one. It was a doozy of a sale; big money, and lots of other leads and sales resulting. But this client is very picky and very demanding (although I think the politically-correct term is "risk-averse"), and insisted that my company be contractually obligated to name names, rather than just positions and qualifications, of the people who would write the software. One guess as to one of the names on the contract, then fast-forward to this July. The client is more and more insistent about having 100% on-site presence, which for commuting is horrible. Basically, you're gone for 6 days but only on-site for 3 1/2. I'd likely have to travel at least every other week, and always be on the other side of the Atlantic of the people I needed to talk to.

So I came up with a proposal - let me bring my family over, pay my expenses and their share above our costs in the states, and I'll stay full-time. Turns out the clients was all over that, so in mid-August we came over here and the machinery started grinding for my UK work permit. To activate it, I was told, I needed to exit the "common travel area", or CTA, and re-enter. What's the CTA, you ask? Irritation and aggravation, I answer. Really it means that there's no border control in the CTA, so I can't just drive down to Dublin and activate the permit in any way remotely convenient.

And Belfast International, it turns out, really isn't much more than a regional airport. Sure, I can get to lots of places on the continent, but it's only by going to Paris that I can get back on the same day. Most of the destinations from BFS are out-and-back kind of things, and I didn't want to risk having a tight window to clear immigration, get out of arrivals, to departures, and through security. Paris, then, is the only route from Belfast with a nice buffer. Even then, you have to go on a Friday.

Yesterday was the big day for me. Being the worrier I am, I'd been getting more and more stressed about all the things that could go wrong, not the least of which was worrying about not speaking the language. That, on top of an already crap week at work, made me pretty miserable; things weren't made better by a forecast of heavy rain and gale-force winds. And the horror stories I'd heard about CDG airport - oy, don't start. Of course, the worst part for me was the page on my passport with "allowed to stay in Ireland through 11 Sept 2007". That might as well have been written in letters of fire, as far as I was concerned. I was pretty convinced that I'd spend the night in jail, and "amused" myself in my sleepless nights thinking about if a French jail would be worse than a Northern Ireland jail.

But it turned into a non-event. A long, boring, non-event. To give you an idea, I finished the 650-page book I bought at BFS, and got a good bit of work too. I wandered around CDG a bit, going over to Terminal 2 in an attempt to see a TGV (I didn't), trying to find a hot-spot in the Sheraton (I didn't), and finally finding one back in Terminal 3 (very flaky, and I have no idea what the bill will be).

Two curiosities, and one tip:
Curiosity #1: Maybe there's something to this whole "French food is wonderful" thing, if the chicken sandwich I had for dinner is any indication. Or maybe the food I'm used to having in Ireland is just bad, which is a distinct possibility. I mean, would it kill them to use something besides mayo and/or butter on a sandwich?

Curiosity #2: Sitting in the terminal reading, I keep hearing what I can only think is a bunch of girls cheering. The technical term for "bunch of girls" is, I believe, a "giggle". The sounds are high-pitched, nearly unison ululations, echoing though the terminal at random intervals, and I can only think "American girls sports team". When I wandered over to that side of the terminal, I found instead what is highly likely to be the complete opposite of "American girls sports team". The area was packed with white-robed Muslims preparing to depart on pilgrimage to Mecca. As the pilgrims walked the length of the terminal past the long line of families, their tearful relatives (at least the women) would give the ululating wail - I guess a combination of joy and sadness, a final farewell for the departure of a loved one who goes to do a great thing.

Tip #1: Spring for the "speedy boarding" option at EasyJet. They do first-come, first-served seating like I imagine Southwest does. It's only £8 more, and it pretty much guarantees you a seat in the first couple of rows. And, of course, room for your bag in the overhead; even better if you sit in the bulkhead row.

So now I'm an official legal alien - nine days before we head back to Atlanta for the holidays. But at least this time, when we come back, I can be honest about how long I'll be here.

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