Following Mata Hari

Jenny and I took a half-business all-pleasure trip to the Continent earlier in the year. This was during the build up to the World Cup, but before the cresting of the frenzy. It was difficult to escape the influence of the World Cup, but we tried...

Although it was not planned, we vaguely followed in the footsteps of Mata Hari, born Margaretha Zelle, after her emancipation from married life into the life of an exotic dancer, a courtesan, and a spy. Or, as Jenny put it, from one world of sex and lies until-death-do-us-part to another. But fortunately although we followed in some of her travels, we found a very different ending.

I hadn’t seen Jenny for almost two weeks before we met for this trip, so there was a fair amount of time spent catching up. Various Internet technologies allowed us to keep up with each other verbally and even visually, but that important physical component was beyond the grasp of available technology. Only moderated by our desire to keep our respective bodies in good condition and our light business meeting schedules, we usually spent twelve to fourteen hours a day in the hotel. Another way in which we were unwittingly emulating Mata Hari.

Margaretha Zelle was born in the Netherlands. After time in Java, she returned to Europe. Freeing herself from husband, family, and social conventions, Zelle was reborn at the age of 28 as Mata Hari in Paris, an self-made expert at the entirely contrived Javanese exotic dance.

In Paris Jenny and I spent most of our time in the museums and walking. A lasting memory is holding hands, people watching, talking of our living plans, surrounded by the scent of blossoms on Avenue Montaigne, on our way to a dinner at No. 50. Earlier, on the Left Bank, we had visited Musee du Quai Branly, which is either rule-breaking, man-machine-nature synthetic architectural genius or self-absorbed, plant-infested architectural masturbation. That evening was capped off at Le Cab bar.

Another memory, though odd, is our being approached by a small group of Chinese who were thrown out of the Louis Vuitton store. They wanted us to buy them some bags. Armed with diagrams and retail prices for a whole line of items, they actually handed me a wad of cash in the middle of the street to go buy two expensive items in the store while they proposed to wait out of sight around the corner. Briefly I wondered what would make them trust a stranger like myself to walk away and around the corner with several thousand Euro in cash? Were counterfeiters that desperate? Or did they need those presents for Auntie Wu that badly?

The 178 cm tall, exotic, multilingual, musically-talented Mata Hari reportedly became the most highly-paid courtesan in Europe at the age of 38, and a war time spy. While a courtesan, she reportedly tried to steal back her daughter in Amsterdam.

Jenny and I enjoyed the grand canals of Amsterdam, the diamond factories, the Van Gogh and Rijksmuseum museums, and the allergy inducing De Hortus. We made an obligatory prowl of the De Wallen call girls, always an interesting sight and fodder for interesting discussion. Although there are similar places in other parts of the world, the tourist and native atmosphere mixture is something special. Amsterdam is a diverse and interesting city, but we probably spent way too much time in bed.

The Schiphol Airport deserves special mention: it is a very well done airport and even has a branch art museum inside. But the KLM lounge was not as amenable to hanky panky as my favorite: the Cathay Pacific lounge in Hong Kong. But we made do...

Although much of what is written about Mata Hari’s spying and double agent activities is apocryphal, or at best unreliable, if she did spy for the Germans it is likely it was under the direction of a German lover she met while performing in Berlin.

In Germany we rented an AMG CL65 Mercedes, spent a track day at the Porsche factory, and then made it to Berlin. My adrenaline moment was trying not to panic at Jenny’s driving a circa 500 horsepower SUV — she received her virgin driver’s license only this year. I picked up a bunch of tips in driving the Cayenne Turbo S model, as I will be driving the same model in Saudi Arabia later this year.

A notable experience was trying not to spill our food on the bed linens at the hyper-stylish Bungalow Club in Berlin — where you have dinner on dauntingly pure white beds. I found the place overly Euro-trendy in that uniquely German way, but it was an implementation of an idea I have advocated for some time — eating in communal beds. There are other places similar to this, for example one we tried in Bangkok last year. In both places we provided some unpaid but very rewarding entertainment for the other patrons.

Driving in fast cars and eating on publicly visible beds were interesting — though vastly different — mood setters. Both were exciting in their own way.

Mata Hari was recruited to spy on the Germans on behalf of France, either as a courtesan-spy, or as many believe, a double agent. Her first significant mission, which may or may not have ever actually consummated, was to Brussels.

No geek can mention Brussels without talking about the Atomium, a 100 meter tall shiny steel molecular model that towers over the city. Originally built for the Universal Exhibition in 1958, the Atomium reopened this year after extensive reconstruction; it’s quite nice. With escalators in the bond struts, and observation decks, activity areas and a restaurant in the atom balls, there is no other building quite like it, although I find it more impressive from the outside than the inside.

The Atomium also has a new chef at their restaurant. It is still experiencing a few growing pains, but lunch there was interesting enough to divert my attention from the frustration of working with EU bureaucrats.

Although Mata Hari never was reported to have visited Copenhagen, Jenny and I did. The weather was fantastic, and the waterway by our hotel was full of happy people, food, music, and scantily clad Scandinavians.

The memorable moment there was the view from the Golden Tower at Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen; appreciating the wisdom of a beautiful city with virtually no high rise buildings and great design sense. Asian cities are comparatively ugly, having generally put progress ahead of architectural and cultural integrity. But then again, looking at the comparative economic growth rates, who can say if Europe is preserving culture for the betterment of their children or being stuck in the past to the detriment of their children?

It is possible that part of Mata Hari’s undoing was her capture in London, where she was accused of being a double agent for the Germans. Again, much is unclear about her spying activities, but it is known that Zelle was interrogated by Scotland Yard and eventually sent back to the Continent.

In London we prepared for our journey to New York by dining at Fat Duck, which I believe to be underrated for food despite being ranked in the top ten in London by Zagats. I cannot help but think that perhaps some diners find the creativity of the cuisine too difficult to appreciate. But geeks who like food must experience what Heston Blumenthal does by mixing flavors and technology.

Jenny and I left London for New York, and then to Vancouver, Canada, enjoying a week of magnificent weather on both coasts of America. The highlights were three catered outdoor picnics: in Central Park in New York; in Stanley Park in Vancouver; and BBQ ribs helicoptered atop a mountain in the Canadian Rockies.

We did watch a few World Cup games, at least parts of the games while I tried my best to distract her with the tools that God gave me. Then back home to Asia to complete the round-the-world trip.

Unfortunately Mata Hari was not able to escape her destiny in Europe. Desperate to use spying to finance a better life with a young Russian lover, Mata Hari was convicted of wartime treason and executed by firing squad in Paris at the age of 41. The International News Service reported that she was shot wearing stockings and a kimono under a fur-trimmed black cloak, a black hat with silk ribbons and bow, and black gloves. She met her destiny unblindfolded and fell with her face turned upwards toward a darkening sky.

Avoiding Temptation

My life has a way of casting sexual temptations my way. This blog has discussed some of them, but even if you remove all the cases where I was looking for trouble, my business — in particular business in Asia — exposes me to many temptations.

Whereas at the start of this blog my goal was to gain exposure to diversity in sex and relationships, it is no longer. So what to do?

Generally speaking, flying around starting companies is busy work, and there isn’t much time for hanky-panky. Although I meet a lot of people, often in one on one environments, most of them are old and male. For whatever reason, perhaps a topic for another post, there aren’t many attractive young women in positions of power. So I don’t meet tempting women in the course of business. The Angels and some others like them are an exception, but even they were in positions that weren’t very powerful, at the call of more powerful men, and, frankly, rare. Women of power I have met, for example in China, are usually older and not at all tempting. Of course I may meet an attractive secretary, staffer, or other underling, but they hold less attraction for me, possibly because they have a niche that is easy to find uninteresting. (But I’ll blog more about this later.)

So that’s the good news.

The bad news is that business among the powerful in Asia — being as dominated as it is by what we would call male chauvinists or, perhaps more generously, males and their society both more in touch with their base needs — is full of young attractive women ready to cater to your sexual cravings in nearly every way imaginable. It creates an environment of temptation that is almost inconceivable to a Westerner who isn’t blessed with the name Brad Pitt or George Clooney. Now it is true that for certain kinds of people in the West similar services are available, but you have to seek it out. It doesn’t happen as part of the ordinary course of a dinner, drinks, and a business deal. And the fact that alcohol is such an ingrained part of the business culture doesn’t help in one’s self control — not that drinking is any excuse for bad behavior, but it does provably lower inhibitions and resolve and thereby increase risk. The casual cultural acceptance of sexual services can also erode your psychological outlook on sex. Although there is evidence that Asia gave me more confidence with women, I did not want to end up with the jaded attitudes of some of my Asian business acquaintances. There is reason to be quite concerned about the on-going temptation “drag force” I was subjected to as an ordinary course of business in Asia.

The solution was simple, although risky in its own way:

I put all my Asian business dealing in the hands of The Man.

As of this past month I have transitioned my major Asia-related contacts and dealings to The Man. And I have shifted my own focus to helping The Man hire other senior executives to manage those endeavors. Beyond that, no more Asian business meetings. Or at least, far fewer of them.

It is a big step and the repercussions are yet unknown. Some people have been surprisingly supportive. Mark, for example, was sad to see a drinking buddy disappear, but happy to know it was for a good reason. He remains very supportive. Park was floored, but mused that perhaps it was time for him to consider a simliar move (the probability of which I rate similarly to that of his choosing to be castrated.) Other reactions ranged from “amused with my reasoning” to “thunderstruck with disbelief.” A-san flatly bet me a princely sum of money that I could not stick to the plan. Perhaps he would prefer to earn a return on that money in my fund?

So... is this all part of the domestication of Sigmund? Or his retirement?

Or is it evolution in action — to become a better thing for myself and others? To find a new niche in a new ecosystem?

Well, there is another plan for broadening sexual horizons. More shared pleasure than hedonism. So with regards to that aspect of Asia perhaps this is less about farewell than au revoir...

Only the Lonely

This is an excerpt from something I wrote in 2004 but never posted. In the context of my current situation, I think it’s worth posting.

Do you know loneliness? It is one thing to be lonely and alone. It is another thing to be lonely the way I am, with many people wanting to be my friend, people wanting my time, people travelling around the world to meet me even in a café between meetings, at an airport, or in my hotel lobby past midnight before I head to bed; to be lonely in a world filled with invitations to exclusive social events, A-list parties, premieres, discussions with the learned and wise, dinners with the famous; to feel alone while being popular with women of resource, beauty and intelligence, invited guest to the dens of the rich and powerful.

Why in such a life, a life that is envied by many from the outside, a life that is the goal of so many worthy people, why in such a life would I be lonely? Why would I find myself deciding not to attend events, actively shun meeting people, and publically make it known that I am antisocial?

I cannot point to the people in my social circle and say that they are dull or uninteresting. They are fascinating, worldly, knowlegable, erudite, wise and often beautiful people. They are CEOs, Nobel Laureates, media moguls, and world leaders. I can only point at myself and say that I do not belong. That somehow I find I cannot belong to a society that is there, but perhaps can only belong to one that I create, a small, private circle that bears my scent. Is that due to an insecurity? Am I protective of myself and my privacy? Do I fear loss, betrayal, or a bad return on my social investment?

All these things may have a ring of truth. But fundamentally I did not engage with society because I did not want human contact and I completely distrust social conventions; neither will protect me from significant harm. I had a deep wound from previous relationships and social circles, emotionally deeper than I have communicated here, from which I never fully recovered. My self-administered therapy was to lock up my heart and to ice it with fear. Fear of commitment to another human or even to society, because such commitment can lead to so much pain. Long ago I did the self-sin of burying that fear deep under a socially acceptable distraction: work. An addiction to work and knowledge as complete as a drug or sex addiction, but fully sanctioned by society as a mode where they will leave you alone. And the world compounded my neurosis by rewarding me!, meaning now my fear was buried even deeper under layer after layer of success.

And I am certain many others are like me at one level or another, alienated by the same society that they dominate with their charisma and success. They appear to be masters of the world, but are also slaves to it,

What kind of neediness is manifest from this loneliness? It is not merely companionship. It is not a warm body. It is not the security of numbers, or the kindness of friends, or the familiarity of society for which I want. No, this loneliness drives a different kind of need: from a woman, a person who will build a world with me. One that is constructed from our own principles of warmth, affection, love, desire and safety, but also containing rules of fear, anxiety, hate, pain and conflict.

I find it interesting to re-read this (and a few other posts) in light of my current situation. I hope this is what I have found.

Small Travel Things

I was in the NYC area several weeks ago. Alas, alone. Jenny had a business to run. I decided to try the U.S. Helicopter service posted by Elle here. So I arranged to fly into JFK and transfer over to their terminal, and having my driver meet me at the heliport in Manhattan rather than driving me over the river and through the woods.

I mentioned in the comments to Elle's post that given the $159 they were charging for the flight the helicopters were probably used and old. Indeed, rather than the modern Sikorsky S92, they were using the S76, and not even the D version. While these were considered excellent corporate helicopters, that was at least fifteen years ago. The S76D and S92s are far quieter.

But the price was very reasonable, so I should not complain. They are new and had a few startup problems with reservations, but the staff were very earnest and friendly.

I was the only passenger on the helicopter.

My experience suggests a few things to consider, if you are contemplating using the service:

U.S. Helicopter departs from the new American Airlines terminal at JFK. The terminal is very nice and surely is very convenient if you are flying on American Airlines and arriving in the same terminal (NB: there are two terminals that American Airlines flights fly into at JFK.) If you are not, however, you have to go through security again. On the other hand, they have TSA staff at the downtown Manhattan heliport, so if you are flying from the Heliport to JFK, and then departing out of the new American terminal, you can speed your way through security at the heliport and skip security at JFK. Much faster.

The helicopter landing pad is outdoors. You have to walk to it. If the weather is not good, you will go through the weather. So will your luggage. This was not a problem for me, fortunately.

There is cabin noise. Although it is much quieter than a typical helicopter, it is loud. You can have a conversation in the cabin... if you shout. U.S. Helicopter does not provide ear plugs in the cabin. You may want to bring some.

Other than these issues the 10 minute flight itself was fine. The views are great, and the altitude is almost ideal for sightseeing over Governor's Island and the Statue of Liberty. For downtown business meetings the landing area is extremely convenient.

Something else I discovered when I had to go through the metal detectors at JFK: my damned titanium American Express cards set off the metal detectors! I guess the cards really are made for people who don't have to fly commercial jets.

And while I am on small things, I also picked up a Motorola Q, the thin PDA that runs Windows Mobile 5. As a phone I found the quality better than my Treo 600, 650 and 700s. The PDA user interface is sufficiently different from Palm that it drives me crazy, but I am sure I will get used to it. It is Windows, so it crashes more than the 600, but not as much as my 650. The default synchronization software is slow, as is the device in general. Taking a photograph, for example, has a maddening delay. The battery life is short. The build quality was not as high as I had hoped, though it is higher than the Treo. It is not available on GSM in the US yet, but then again, GSM does not seem to work that well in many places in the US. The screen is good, and readable in direct sunlight. And it looks cool.

So the Q is not a home run; about par with the 700p. But due to the size I might keep it.

Tired of Hedonism

I was traveling with The Man.

We were talking about the good old days in Asia. When a man could have it better than Kubla Khan ever had it in his pleasure dome. Before triple whammy of disease, money, and Western culture infected the region. When a lack of rules and experience meant survival of the most testosterone. When lackeys in the boardroom meant lackeys in the bedroom. Pure hedonism. I’ll tell you, The Man did some wild shit. I kid you not. There are some stories... but perhaps another time.

All this was before my time, dammit! I arrived too late on the scene to enjoy the halcyon days...

No but seriously, we talked about it. And there was no regrets. Not even the slightest interest in a day long gone.

I realized: I was tired of hedonism. I just have no desire for another night of debauchery with girls shedding their clothes with their alcohol-decimated inhibitions, knocking over whisky bottles like the ten pins of morality in the bowling alley of sexual fantasy. No desire for a foggy night of sexual overload with an immemorable number of women mounting every remotely stiff protrubance in the area. No desire for the feeling of a hundred attractive women competing, truly racking their brains competing! for my attention using any and every device at their disposal. No desire for having all basic desires in a 24 hour period — food, drink, sleep and sex — all taken care of by attentive and skilled women, so that not a thought ever had to ever cross my mind.

I’ve written before about how the brain can adapt to all kinds of pleasure-producing inputs leading to an ever-spiraling never-ending quest for more stimuli. An addiction. But I was not addicted. No, this is fatigue, plain and simple.

But is this merely a refractory period? A latent post-orgasmic phase that will pass, only to restore my desire for hedonistic pleasure raging more strongly than ever?

How can one ever know?

Perhaps a test?