ISABELLE BOULET

The Key to Building A Smart Business

Isabelle Boulet — Sun, 01 Nov 2015 01:59:18 +0000

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Craft Killer Copy to Sell Your Digital Products

Isabelle Boulet — Sun, 01 Nov 2015 01:58:05 +0000

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How to Leverage Social Advertising Platforms

Isabelle Boulet — Sun, 01 Nov 2015 01:57:21 +0000

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Create Marketing Channels That Work

Isabelle Boulet — Sun, 01 Nov 2015 01:56:30 +0000

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Entering into the Premium WordPress Market

Isabelle Boulet — Sun, 01 Nov 2015 01:54:48 +0000

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3 rules for surviving in a foreign culture

Isabelle Boulet — Thu, 02 Aug 2012 00:44:53 +0000

“A nation’s culture resides in the hearts and in the soul of its people”, Gandhi said. No wonder it is so difficult for outsiders to understand a country’s customs and beliefs!

I wanted to live in Britain since I was a child, for reasons that go back too far for me to remember. Eventually, I went to study Business at Middlesex University in London. I floated on air for the first six months, because I was living my dream. But half way through my first year, I began to struggle. I wished I better understood, not so much the things that people said ––my English was good enough for that–– but what was going through their heads.

Much of human communication is left unspoken, we understand it only because we know what rules people are adhering to. So when an English person explained to me that in London, “if someone tells you that you must come and visit, unless they give you a day and time, it is not an invitation”, my heart sank. How was I supposed to know what people meant if I couldn’t rely on the words they spoke? A few years later, I landed in China without a word of Mandarin. But by then I knew better.

Rule number one: my country of origin is not the standard by which others should live

Every culture has some aspects that might seem rude to outsiders, but are perfectly acceptable within the context of the country. In France, everyone who walks into a store is greeted by a welcoming “bonjour”, and replies in kind. When I moved to London, English shopkeepers seemed cold, because they ignored me when I walked in. I later learnt that privacy is highly valued in Britain, and I grew to appreciate that no-one ever felt the need to poke their nose into my life.

After 13 years, the British way of thinking became my way, and then I moved to Washington DC. At first, the American eagerness to ask how I am when I step into a store came as a shock, until I learnt that I just have to say that I’m fine, and everyone’s happy. Most importantly, these days I just go with the flow. When in Rome, do as the Romans do!

Rule number two: there is a logical reason, even though I might not know it

A country’s culture is better understood within the context of its history. Laws and rules have developed over time in response to events that happened in the past. The American press delights in the French media’ s apparent lack of interest in politicians’ indiscretions. What they don’t know is that France has strict privacy laws, and that the French media expose themselves to a lawsuit if they publish photographs obtained without consent. French people believe that what goes on in a marriage, be it that of the president, is a private matter.

Americans believe that politicians who display a lack of morals in the private sphere cannot be trusted with public matters. I cannot disagree with that logic. I don’t have a problem with exposing the culprit. But I also appreciate the privacy that the French media affords the wronged spouses of politicians. If they are not the ones who had the affair, why subject them to public humiliation? So both systems, French and American, have their merits based on their own logic.

Rule number three: relax and enjoy the ride

Being in a foreign country can be a source of anxiety: what if I don’t speak the language or don’t know the rules? The worst that will happen is that I will make a fool of myself, which will make for good stories to tell my friends and family.

The important thing to remember is that people are human beings wherever I go, and that what we have in common is much more than what sets us apart. If I look for the similarities not the differences, I find that I can relate to the people around me and be comfortable in their company.

I do not need in-depth knowledge of the customs of India in order to appreciate Gandhi’s legacy to the world. The values he preached transcend every culture.

Do you know your Budapest from your Bratislava?

Isabelle Boulet — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 11:05:39 +0000

The Parisian taxi driver is going 160 kph in the emergency lane. I’m holding onto the seat belt across my body. “Don’t worry” shouts the driver. Then he veers across all lanes at full speed and forces his way to the front of the line of stationary vehicles waiting to exit the freeway. First I prayed that we would make it in time, now I hope we make it full stop. And it is all my fault.

My husband Mike goes on several business trips a year to Vienna, Austria. Instead of spending the weekend together in Vienna as usual, I suggested we meet in Bratislava, the Slovakian capital, a mere 30 minutes train ride away from Vienna for him.

I had set off for Charles de Gaulle airport in plenty of time. When the automated voice on the train announced Terminal 1, I checked my flight details and that’s when I realized I had the wrong airport. My flight to Bratislava was from Orly. Not only are the two airports in opposite directions but this is rush hour. I jumped into a taxi and asked the driver if he could make it to Orly in one hour. He said he would try.

We arrive at Orly a frustrating 25 minutes before my flight is due to take off. The airline uses computerized check-in that automatically closes 30 minutes before a flight. I just spend €100 on a taxi fare and got the fright of my life, so I run to the check-in desk anyway. To my surprise, the attendant tells me that I have another 5 minutes before the computer shuts down my flight. She hands me my boarding pass, adding that I better hurry up to make it through security. I think to myself that I must have got the flight time wrong.

I wait in line at the x-ray machine. I notice on the screen on the wall that the status of my flight is showing “last call”. I also see that the departure time of my flight is indeed what I thought it was. I check my boarding pass: it is for a flight to Budapest, not Bratislava. I run to the front of the line and grab a security staff member, explaining my predicament. He escorts me to the gate.

Budapest… not Bratislava!

After a computer check and a phone call, the airline staff agree to let me board the right flight. Only, because I am not on the list of checked-in passengers, they have to hand-write my new boarding pass. An airline staff member escorts me to the door of the plane because, as he explains, the cabin crew would never let me on board with a hand-written boarding pass. I ask him if this has ever happened before. “Not in the 40 years that I have been doing this job”, he replies. I was surely meant to make it to Bratislava tonight.

And, I will certainly know my Charles de Gaulle airport from my Orly airport after this.

Back to the Ice Age in Patagonia

Isabelle Boulet — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 23:51:42 +0000

One iceberg drifts past. Then another. One mishap and we will go the way of the Titanic. The ship’s radar is our guardian angel, warning the captain of potential danger.

The icebergs produce a cold breeze, as if we’d poked our head into a freezer cabinet. They are a spectacular turquoise blue, with fresh white snow sprinkled on top. When white light travels through ice, the red, orange, yellow and green components are absorbed, with blue light traveling the furthest. White light therefore turns blue as it travels deeper into the iceberg, illuminating it with a gorgeous azure hue.

Icebergs fill more and more of Lake Argentino as we approach Upsala Glacier. The ship’s captain studies their location and depth with utmost caution. The glacier has been rapidly retreating since 1999, and as it calves into Lake Argentino, its melting icebergs give way to more of the lake. A total of seven glaciers, born out of the Southern Patagonian Ice Field, calve into the Lake. The ice field–the largest after Antartica–covers 6,500 square miles of the Austral Andes and gives birth to 48 major glaciers and a couple of hundred of smaller ones.

Perito Moreno is deservedly the most famous glacier in the area. Over thirty miles long and still growing, it ends in Lago Argentino. The sheer pressure of the advancing ice causes its 3 miles wide terminus to regularly rupture. Huge blocks of ice then fall into the lake to spectacular effect, and to the sound of thunder.

We strap crampons to our walking boots and go trekking on the glacier, carefully keeping away from the edge of giant crevasses and craters that split the ice formation here and there. We quickly get the hang of the flat-footing technique, gently tapping our feet onto the ice to ensure a good grip. As we reach at the top of the glacier, the view stretches across Lake Argentino and its sea of blue icebergs.

No risk of crashing into one of them from up here.

Going gaucho at la Bamba de Areco

Isabelle Boulet — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 19:04:57 +0000

My horse is galloping across the pampa at full speed. All I did was gently press my legs against her body and open my fingers on the reins. I had told the gauchos I could ride, so they threw a saddle on her back and brought her to me. She only goes out with experienced riders, every few days, so she’s not short of energy. In sharp contrast, Mike’s mare is walking with her head low, a few hundred yards behind us now. He would be hard pressed to persuade her to trot, let alone canter.

La Bamba was built in 1830, during colonial times, one of the oldest estancias in Argentina. It features a watchtower, typical of the pre-1880’s, which is painted bull-blood red–sangre de toro–like the rest of the buildings. Under the shelter of the gallery, a leather couch with wrought-iron armrests oozes Spanish colonial comfort.

Crisps white table linens were thrown over the dining table, itself placed on the lawn. Alfresco dining heralds mild weather, as does the orange tree, its fruits too tempting for Mike to resist. In the lounge at night, the crackling logs in the fireplace and woolen mantas on the floor provide a feeling of cosiness.

La Bamba’s owner still raises cattle and employs gauchos–Argentinian cowboys–to look after the beasts. Brujita, the black mare that I am riding during our sojourn, has her mane shaved, like all gaucho horses. She is a Criollo, an Argentinian breed whose Andalusian ancestors first stepped off Spanish galleons in the mid-sixteenth century. Some of the horses were later freed in the plains of Argentina. Their wild descendents became well adapted to the variations in temperature and dry grasses of the Pampas.

They were not the only ones to roam free: nomadic riders, also of Spanish ancestry, lived by hunting wild cattle. Commercial cattle ranching began in the second half of the 18th century and the gauchos settled in estancias. Their reputation for being proud, freedom loving, and quick with their knife is the stuff of legend, but today we are thankfully merely trading horse stories.

Roaming across Argentinian Skies

Isabelle Boulet — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 07:25:17 +0000

Our flight is already almost an hour late and still no sign of the aircraft. I am pacing through Montevideo’s airport. I know this is South America but I had hoped they would make an effort for an international flight. At last, our Aerolíneas Argentinas flight to Buenos Aires is boarding, and 30 minutes after taking off, we land in Argentina at 10pm.

My husband and I still have to collect our luggage, get a taxi into town and check in to the hotel before a well earned rest. It is a short night in the Argentine capital before heading back to the airport to catch an early morning flight to El Calafate.

Onward to Patagonia

The flight departs one hour late but today I feel in less of a hurry. It is only a three hour flight to El Calafate, which leaves us all afternoon to check into our hotel and leisurely stroll around town before dinner at a local Parilla. I nibble on the club sandwich, identical to the one served on yesterday’s flight, and sip tea from the Aerolíneas sky blue plastic cup. We start our descent half an hour before reaching the airport and soon snow is flying past the window outside.

Suddenly, the engines roar and the pilot announces in Spanish that the airport has been shut down due to a snow storm and that we have been re-routed. Half an hour later we land on the Atlantic coast instead of the heart of the Andes. “Welcome to Rio Gallegos” the cabin crew announce, this time in both Spanish and English.

Stranded in Patagonia

We disembark into the tiny airport hall and I explain to four bewildered Anglo-Saxon tourists that they did not accidentally board the wrong plane in Buenos Aires. The ground staff tell me that indeed there is a road to El Calafate, but it is unpaved and it would take eight hours by bus to reach our original destination. They recommend that we wait for further instructions from the airline.

After several hours, we are told to get back on board the plane. The pilot cheerfully breaks the news that we were supplied with snacks that will be served while we wait for the all clear. Soon, we will be taking off for a fresh attempt at landing in El Calafate. I munch on my third identical Aerolíneas club sandwich in less than twenty four hour while a man climbs a step ladder outside the window. He proceeds to sweep the wing with a brush and then manually sprays it with de-icing liquid from a large bottle strapped to his back.

Half an hour later, we get permission to take off. It is all loud cheers in the cabin as we climb into the night. My watch shows that twenty minutes have passed since we left Rio Gallegos and I am beginning to worry. I anxiously listen to the roar of the engines which are clearly still in full thrust; the nose of the plane is firmly pointing towards the sky. Finally, the pilot breaks the news: the airport in El Calafate is still closed. This time we are making our way back to Buenos Aires.

The latest news causes an uproar. All passengers jump to their feet shouting in Spanish”It’s a lie! They lied to us!” and then congregate in the aisle. They spend the remainder of the three hour journey standing, locked in a passionate discussion over the nature and intricacies of Aerolíneas’ perfidy. The cabin crew, the four Anglo-Saxon tourists, Mike and myself are the only ones sitting as we land in Buenos Aires.

Have we been here before?

The cabin crew open the door but no-one budges. After five minutes I ask a young steward for an update on the situation. It turns out that Aerolíneas is offering to put us up in a hotel for the night and to charter an extra flight to take us back to El Calafate the next morning. It all seems reasonable to me, in fact I would not have expected any less, so why is no-one disembarking?

The steward casually explains that the passengers are up in arms against Aerolíneas and have decided to keep the plane hostage. And what should Mike and I do? He shrugs his shoulders “It is entirely up to you, you can take the voucher or else stay on the plane” And what is the steward going to do? He has to stay until everyone is gone, but that does not seem to phase him, so perhaps this is nothing unusual. Mike and I make our way out of the plane and pick up our voucher at the customer service counter.

Onward to Patagonia (part 2)

The following morning we board a new plane. I look around and I recognize our fellow passengers from yesterday, who seem in good spirits on this fine day. We leave Buenos Aires an hour late but I no longer pay attention to that kind of detail. This time we make it to El Calafate after an uneventful flight, including another Aerolíneas special club sandwich and a cup of tea in a sky blue plastic cup. I pick up my bag and we wait for an hour for Mike’s suitcase to show up but all in vain. It did not make it. The ground crew gives us a receipt and informs us that Mike’s luggage will be delivered to our hotel as soon as the next flight from Buenos Aires brings it.

Regrettably, after a delightful three days exploring the spectacular glaciers that abound in this enchanting region of Patagonia, it is time to move on. I think the flight to Ushuaia was one hour and a half late, but I could not say for sure, I hardly noticed. In Ushuaia we spend the next few days sailing the Beagle Channel, driving off-road around Lake Fagnano in a Land Rover and dog sledding atop snow-covered peat-bogs. Finally, it is time to get back to Buenos Aires. The taxi drops us off at the airport but as we check-in for our 1pm flight, we are told to come back later as our flight has been delayed until 5pm. We gleefully seize this unexpected opportunity to enjoy more of Ushuaia and hop into another taxi and back into town.

It has been five days since we made it back to Buenos Aires, which we spent exploring this wonderful city and the surrounding Pampa. Our United flight pushes back from the airport terminal bang on time; half an hour after take off, the cabin crew start serving drinks. For old time’s sake, Mike and I produce two little sky blue plastic cups, stamped with the Aerolíneas logo.

Tea for us please.