New York Minutes, Vol. 10: beyond punditry

Driving through the Yosemite Valley last month, blissed out by the stunning landscape and the 80s station on Sirius XM, we heard Howard Jones’s “No One is To Blame” -- does life get any better? Then the DJ came in with, “That’s not true -- BP’s to blame! Ha ha...”

I still don’t know what to say about it, I really don’t. There are so many dimensions of the story that could be parsed out indefinitely: the significance of the CEO transition; the challenges of implementing standards across huge companies and through a supply chain; the risks inherent in that business.

But beyond the opining that the pundits and business school academics will no doubt carry on for years (from which I am not immune, having published an op-ed off the back of the spill), I’m struggling. Not that my travails compare to those whose livelihoods have been destroyed. But having built a reputation as an expert in corporate social responsibility on my years with that company, I feel a little like an accountant who worked at Enron.

I keep replaying my decade at the company in my mind, trying to spot any of the reckless behavior that one would think by reading current accounts of the company ran rampant. But I keep coming up blank.

Maybe the projects I worked on were anomalies, so unique in their sensitivities that everyone up the chain of command was happy to go beyond what was required. Maybe I was more marginalized than I realized, allowed to carry out my nice little projects while bigger, riskier decisions were being taken behind closed doors. Or maybe it was the guys who caused the spill who were the outliers.

Who knows. Maybe after my UN gig ends next June I can spend a little more time trying to figure it out.

In the meantime, yes, I am glad to have left. My former colleagues are exhausted, working double-duty until the operation in the Gulf is fully staffed; angry and confused about how this could happen, when we’d built up such a safety culture that you could be sure to get reprimanded if you didn’t hold the handrail on the stairs; distraught that the company’s become a punchline, a symbol of everything that’s wrong with the world.

Although part of me wouldn’t mind being in the thick of it. This is one of the biggest corporate crises in history, and there’s a real opportunity for meaningful change in how the business works. It will be fascinating to see how that opportunity is realized, or not. But I’ll be content to watch from a safe distance.

Needless to say, the spill meant that my former employer beat out my husband’s current employer for Most Evil Company -- for now. I won this battle, but dare I say the war isn’t over.

Amidst all of this destruction and evil, thank goodness for Eurovision. We were in the UK for the 54th annual song contest, so I got to watch the TV broadcast in its entirety for the first time. I called the winner, a Lily Allen clone from Germany, but thought the early 80s punk band from Moldova should have received more votes.

It’s quite a spectacle, combining the pageantry of the Olympics with the train wreck of “America’s Got Talent” with the politics of the United Nations. There was even a pitch invasion, by an audience member infiltrating Spain’s Nutcracker-like number; the snarky English commentator later informed us that the offender was in police custody, along with Spain’s costume designer and choreographer. (This recent New Yorker article captured it nicely.)

That trip was one of many so far this year. I met my annual dumpling target on a two-week trip in Asia, doing workshops on business and human rights in Hong Kong, Shenzhen, and Tokyo. I just happened to be in Hong Kong for the Rugby Sevens, which I hadn’t attended since 2003. It wasn’t quite the same without my costumed frisbee friends, but it was still fun: seven Andre Agassis c. 1981 chugging pitchers of beer with a set of Flintstones, all rising to sing “Stand up if you hate the French”. Look out, Rio 2016.

Another highlight was heading back to Cape Canaveral to celebrate my birthday by watching stepbrother Nick depart on his second trip to the International Space Station.

Like his first launch, the experience was mind-blowing: We were first overwhelmed by the light that spreads across the sky, then the rumbling that we felt in our chests, then the heat, then the realization that someone we know is in that little dot disappearing over the horizon. (Carrie’s video captures the experience better than the official NASA footage.) It made me wonder, in our privileged worldly lives, what renders us truly speechless anymore?

One phenomenon that left many tongue-tied was that Icelandic volcano -- which, miraculously, given my predilection for disaster areas (Hong Kong during SARS; London on 7/7; Indonesia, well, anytime) did not ensnare me in its ashen clutches. I was indeed on a plane, but to North Carolina, where the only association with ashes is the state’s legacy tobacco industry.

Other domestic travel so far this year includes Yosemite, where we were privileged to attend our friends’ bee-yoo-tee-ful wedding. Our dancing wasn’t the energetic spectacle that it usually is, having climbed Half Dome a few days earlier. That hike was quite a slog, particularly the last stretch up the 45-degree granite slope, for which we hauled ourselves up a set of steel cables with hundreds of other summer hikers. And of course, the euphoria at having made it to the summit fades as the pain of the descent kicks in. But it was a great metaphor for those challenges that look impossible -- and that you never have to do again but can dine out on forever. (Check out Adrian’s photos.)

Our week in Yosemite was wonderful, but I’ve spent too much time with Europeans to think that one week does a holiday make. So part two kicks off Labor Day Weekend, when we’ll head to Puebla for a Mexican cooking school. It looks to be pretty low-key: I emailed the contact to ask when the course listed on their website would run, to which he replied, “When do you want to come?”

I then relayed the fact that we’re relatively comfortable in the kitchen, so want to make sure the curriculum goes beyond making guacamole. He replied that "We have a very special course for Chefs, and we call it ‘Advanced Cooking Course’. We think this is the level that you need.” “We’re not chefs.” “That’s ok.” “When are you running it?” “When do you want to come?”

Stay tuned.

much love,
cb