Back to Work, You

Yes, all good things must come to an end, and so we put this year's holiday behind us and head back to the happy land of in-boxes, e-mails, and meetings, meetings, meetings. As you can see, I'm practically giddy with anticipation at the prospect.

This is the part of la vie expat that I hate: it's Sunday (our Tuesday, here in bizarro-world, remember), it's 105 degrees at 6:30 a.m. and so humid that the outsides of our windows have steamed up like a 7-11 fridge on a busy night, and I have to put on a wool suit, starched shirt, and necktie and spend the next ten hours being nice to people.

Three weeks ago, we were doing things like sitting in our favorite little café on the Spui in Amsterdam, watching the world go by; two weeks ago, we wandered the backstreets of Paris as the city celebrated its Fête de la Musique; last week, it was brunch with friends in Berlin as we recovered from Pride. Today, I get to turn off "Out of Office" and return phone calls.

In the immortal words of Miss Ball: "WAAAAAAH!"

But, since Grandmother Muscato (both of them, actually) firmly taught that there are few things less attractive than self-pity (unless, I've since learned, you are Margo Channing), it's time to make the best of lashings of black coffee and office gossip, both of which will just as surely feature in my day.

Enjoy your Sundays, Westerners - your day will come. Tomorrow, in fact.