Hiking the half-dome (or how a fucking bear ate my backpack)

When explorers were discovering what is now Yosemite National Park, one famously remarked that the Half-Dome was the only one of its peaks that would never be under human boots. Of course when you make a declaration like that, all the crazies come out of the woodwork to challenge it. One of those crazies was a blacksmith by the name of George Anderson, who scaled the surface by punching iron bolts into it, and slowly made his way to the peak. Following his path are now iron rods that are cabled, allowing the adventurist the possibility to walk along a smooth granite surface at what feels like a 60 degree angle. Its open to all ages, and to any who dares to climb it. This might make it seem pretty safe, and generally it is, but 3 people still slid off that dome last summer to fall to their deaths. Before heading to park my mum gave me an article about it that detailed how the latest victim, a japanese or korean fellow, met his fate. While scaling along the cables his boots lost their grip and he slid down, wrapping around one of the iron polls like a stripper, and being flailed out where he screamed and clawed fruitlessly at the smooth surface until falling off the edge, as dozens of impotent hikers looked on unable to do anything but hope that superman might appear.

No guts no glory.

The hike up to the dome is about 16 miles or so, mostly straight up, so we have to start early. Mum estimates 10-12 hours, I'm guessing 8-10, in the end it took about 9 without any breaks. Because of the length of time we have to start up early, up at 6 to have a coffee and head for the trail. It was about 7.10 am (my camera tells me my first bear photo is at 7.13). We were still near the very beginning of the trail, at the only water fountain station. My mum tells me she's off to use the toilet, so I head for the water fountains to top off our water bottles. The fountain sits by a bridge, with a large rock overhead. I set my walking stick on the rock and sling off my backpack and take out a water bottle. I walk to the fountain and start to fill the bottle. From the bridge four hikers shout out "hey man, look out for the bear". I look up to the rock but can't see above it, I back up slowly keeping my eyes on the rock until I'm on the bridge and I see it there. A brown bear just above where I stood. He climbs down and starts to head for the backpack, I start yelling and hollering at him but he seems unbothered. He comes up to the bag and tears it open, munching on beef jerky and trail mix. I turn to the hikers who are now assembled watching him and ask them to start hollering at the bear on the count 3 . Everyone shouts and the bear picks up the bag and runs off with it. Mum says "my blackberry!!!". We get a lot of pitied faces from the other backpackers, all our water (except the one bottle still in my hands), and all our food are gone, along with the expensive pack, blackberry, and mum's favourite camp shirt.

I'm pissed as hell, if I had a gun I would have shot the bear in the balls before putting him down. I don't really blame the bear per se, he's just a bear, its not like it was personal, but god damn you bear, god damn you.

As we head up the trail I can see the bear down by the river, with the little blue bag underneath of him, having himself a little snack. I want to throw rocks at him, but mum advises me not to piss off a bear.

On the trail we benefit from every sort of kindness from strangers. One pair of american hikers notices us without packs and call out "hey where's your water!" We tell em the the story, the offer us food, water, and the opportunity to pump stream water through their filter. We turn them down, since we still had a lot of water, one of them was named Sherman..."like the tank" he says......

We're hiking up until we reach the backpackers campsite on the trail. This site is for those people wanting to the dome in 2 days instead of one. Some may opt for this option thinking that its "easier" to do it in 2 days, but watching those poor buggers walk uphill for hours with tents and stoves on their backs assured me that is far from the case. However we are happy to find a hiker still in the now empty grounds, who take us to a stream and refills our bottle with his filter pump. He also gives us 2 plastic bottles which he also fills, they were used to carry his wine, the water carries the taste.

The trail winds up and up offering incredible views. It eventually comes to the staircase, stone steps carved up the rock face. The half-dome is so named because it is literally half a dome, imagine a cake shaped like a bald man's head, and slice half off, and you would gain the sense of it. The steps take you partway up, but eventually they end and from there you rely only on the tread of your boots to make your way up. I am instantly aware that I have the wrong footwear, I'm in my blundstones which are technically hiking boots, but certainly not climbing boots, the treads are the wrong shape and not nearly deep enough. I climb up, mostly hunched over to keep my centre of gravity low, my boots slipping a few inches whenever I touch down on some gravel.

We eventually get to the cables on a small flat part of the dome. At the bottom of the cables is a small hole where there is a collection of rotted gloves for handling the cables. Some people wear their own, its a smart idea. We take some gloves and start up, mum ahead of me. The anxiety is terrible, between each pair of iron poles holding the cables, there is a wood plank, not even attached to the poles but simply there by virtue of gravity. The idea is to climb from one plank of wood until the next. Sliding off is easy to imagine, at this angle the momentum from any slip could turn uncontrollable, all that I rely on is the grip of my boots on the rock, and my gloves on the cables. The climb is slow, there's a person on each wood plank and you can only move up when the person in front of you vacates their plank. We reach a point however where mum has no plank. As mum waits for the plank ahead of her to clear, she stands with no plank, and as her foothold loosens, and her gloves start to slide on the cable, she loses her nerve and descends. I come to the same crack, and look up at the long long series of steps ahead, and back down as well. There are many ways to measure the distance I was from the top, one way would be 20 meters or so, but in another sense, it was an incredible stretch. I take a breath, and I take the view, and I make my way back down. If I'm ever there again I'm up for a rematch, with proper boots and gloves I might do better. As for the bear, I'll take his picture with me, just in case we cross paths again....

Sunny Spain

My Ryanair flight goes to Barcelona (Girona). For those unfamiliar, Ryanair uses city names somewhat liberally, for example the flight was from Brussels (Charleloi). However Charleloi is a completely different city, about as far south away from Brussels as the country goes. The Ryanair flight to Vienna (the capital of Austria), actually lands in Bratislava (the Capital of Slovakia).

Most Ryanair airport cities are godawful places which offered up cheap land for airport development. Girona however is a charming small city with a history dating back centuries, so I opt to wander around for the day. Unfortunately anti-terror laws meant that the public lockers had been closed, meaning I had nowhere to stow my enormous backpack, so I walked with it, up hills to the monastery, crossing the bridges and walking the cobbled stones, feeling every ounce of my pack in the sunny heat. All the shops are closed during the hottest part of the day, it’s a clever idea, but when you want to buy a bottle of water its somewhat more irritating. By far the most interesting sight were the Arab baths, which were in fact built by romans.

I meet Tatevik in Barcelona, we had rented a flat in the Gothic area for the few days, right by the Picasso Museum. We spend our days walking to the sights of the cities, the various Gotti buildings, the massive gardens and citadel, and of course the Ramblas. We do a pub crawl and a cooking class, and then end with an afternoon on the beach.

We ride to the airport together, we’re both boarding planes, Tatevik for Tallinn, I’m headed for Madrid. The goodbyes are as hard as ever.


Arriving in Madrid I wander down to my hostel, a very open concept place with lots of friendly travelers. I meet some Americans and a couple Aussies and we walk to the palace, the main avenues, and the parks. Its very stately but much less vibrant. We take the time to see the priceless art the city had collected, but I was sorely disappointed I couldn’t see the Guernica, because some Museums don’t open on Tuesdays (...)

Vive la France

The first time I was at a Bastille day celebration was July 14, 2006, and it was entirely by accident. I was with my Dad in Paris after he visited in England, we took the eurostar for a few days there and happened to be checking out on Sunday which was the 14th. Because we had our train to catch we could only watch the morning parade.

One year on I found myself in Brussels, my mum calling me up asking me if I can meet my sister Caitlin in Paris. She was on a summer school programme, lecturing and touring in several European cities, coupled with some exams for school credit. My mum asks if I can take her shopping, something that the teachers organizing the event had somehow neglected from the itinerary.

I post a note to the NATO interns, mentioning that I’m on my way, asking if anyone else would like to come. I get two takers for the trip, Elisabeth and Angela. The hostel situation is dire, everything is booked, so we just travel without reservations hoping for the best, and luckily the first hostel we visit, a charming one in Montmartre, has free rooms.

On the first night I go to meet a friend of Elisabeth’s who lives in Paris, who’s having a dinner party in his beautiful flat not far from the Eiffel Tower. It’s a stereotypically French affair, 20 something young professionals, mostly in finance, wearing evening suits sitting in a circle in the drawing room, antique furniture and a grand piano covered in wine bottles (our own contribution was particularly “bon marche”). I have to use my French all evening, but the wine helps this. They principally sit around and smoke, then drink wine, and then smoke. All that was missing was the gentle waft of accordion music on the air.

The following day I meet Caitlin at her hotel by les Halles, one of my favourite parts of Paris near the Marais. I tell her that on Sunday many of the shops will be closed so we do some brief shopping before taking groceries down the Champ de Mars, at the foot of the Eiffel Tower for a picnic. It’s a warm sunny day and we lounge in the beauty of the city. I take Caitlin back to her hotel to make her curfew, and then head back to Montmartre. I had called my buddy Ahad earlier who works in Paris, who also lives in Montmartre (on the same street that the fictional character Amelie lived on). He tells us that he’s spending his evening at a Balle des Pompiers, a 2 night celebration in Paris that happens on the Bastille day weekend. On Friday half the firefighters in Paris party it up, on Saturday the other half. The party happens right at the firehall, and so we meet up with Ahad and head down where a full stage is set with a cover band doing Village People and Madonna covers.

Finally its Bastille day, the day starts with the parade down the Champs Elysees, jets flying above streaking the tricolor on the sky, tanks, soldiers, and huge pushy crowds of people. We fetch Caitlin and in the evening we return to the Champs de Mars, and set ourselves up to watch the evening concert and fireworks. The music act is half decent and includes Nelly Furtado, but also some 80’s French pop-rock music icon who puts me to sleep. Luckily I wake in time to see the sky behind the Eiffel Tower light up for 30 amazing minutes. The crowds afterwards were nightmarish. We walk all the way from the Eiffel Tower to Caitlin’s hotel, and by then the metro had sufficiently cleared to allow us to get back.

The final day is a lazy one, having done all the sights. We climb the steps of Notre Dame and look out on Paris, and wander down in front of the Pompidou Centre to see buskers. The weather is so hot that Elisabeth and I even take a cool down in the fountain filled with the works of Tinguely and Niki de Saint Phalle to wind off our day.

Amsterdam

Flat outings weren’t too common, but sitting in our kitchen one day we all just decided it would be charming to spend the weekend in Amsterdam. We leave early on Saturday morning, I forget exactly why I was incredibly hung-over….but I was. I told Madeline, Rickard, and Lillian that I would catch a later train and meet them there, but I managed to clean myself up and haul ass down and meet them on the train platform.
In the evening we wandered down to the red light district, its interesting how the regular patterns of the free market manifest themselves in any industry. In the red light district, a woman sits in her lingerie in a window, a man passes by and inquires the rate, if they come to an arrangement then the curtains are closed and so on. Now in a regular shopping district, one will notice that some properties are more desirable for stores than others, such as a main avenue. The rents on those properties are probably higher, and the type of store usually sells more profitable goods and services. In the red light district, there are girls on the main street by the canal, and the side streets. The side street girls are considerably “down market”. One eventually comes to the niche area, the specialty interest shop (aka one woman was about 300 pounds sitting in her lingerie….)

Amsterdam feels like a city turned into a hostel. There are so many Americans, all with dreadlocks and sandals, lots of old hippies, and lots of buskers. Its still quite beautiful with all the canals, but there’s a certain seediness to the city that even all the pretty art galleries can’t take away.

We stay at the Hans Brinker hostel, a poster proudly adorns one wall, it reads “Attention neat freaks: you are endangering your immune system by denying your body the opportunity to encounter dangerous bacteria. Luckily the Hans Brinker hostel has every bacteria known to man. Reservations: etc etc”

Reims

http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038088&l=ab9c5&id=37002455

I have a Lonely Planet for Western Europe, and in the France section 70% is dedicated to Southern France. Of the 30% dedicated to Northern France, 25% is on Paris. Of the very few destinations considered worth writing about in Northern France, there is Champagne.

Cassandra: I don't believe I've ever had French champagne before...

Benjamin Kane: Oh, actually all champagne is French, it's named after the region. Otherwise it's sparkling white wine. Americans of course don't recognize the convention so it becomes that thing of calling all of their sparkling white champagne, even though by definition they're not.

Wayne Campbell: Ah yes, it's a lot like "Star Trek: The Next Generation". In many ways it's superior but will never be as recognized as the original. (Wayne’s World)

There is no train connection from Brussels to Champagne, luckily Mihalis is a trooper and willing to drive the 3 hours or so each way. We arrive and briefly wander around the Notre Dame church and old city centre, and discover a medieval festival going on, complete with sword fights.

We head straight for the Pomery Champagne House, an estate that I picked because of the unique cellar. Pommery bought this plot of land for what lay underneath, an old Chalk quarry dating back to the roman times. Deep inside these mines he laid down his wine to ferment and become Champagne. The doors to the quarry are in a large central hall, when the guide opens the heavy wooden doors cold air from the mine blows out to us. We walk down the long staircase into the mine, which is liberally decorated with abstract modern art, including a mass of tinfoil pilgrims, and one room with a huge domed structure built of wicker chairs. Above us there is an old chain system, maybe a hundred years old, that used to ferry wicker baskets along to carry the bottles, it has long since broken down. We exit the cellar to sample some of the champagne, and though I chose 3 varieties to try I find the difference among them to be far too subtle for me too detect. As we drive towards Brussels we pass the golden fields of Alsace during a rainstorm and watch a perfect rainbow emerge.

Knokke-Heist

At the end of the train tracks there is a town called Knokke-Heist. If you walk down from the train station you will be on the shore of the North Sea. I spent a day there, one of the last beach worthy days of the whole summer. The day was May 25.

Road trip to Geneva

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One of the biggest differences between Europe and North America, is the ability to travel on impulse. With so much nearby, one can simply decide to take a backpack and go. Back home, we can go camping at the drop of a pin, but no traveling. Everything is too far away, and there is no way to buy last minute transportation at a decent price.

Not so here! I was having dinner with my colleague Rolf, trying cow’s tongue for the first time, quite tender actually. Somewhat buzzed we are shooting the breeze and I mention how badly I want to get away for the weekend, maybe someplace nearby like Spa. He says he’s driving to Geneva, and offers me a lift! I go home to change briefly, I’m due at a European Parliament stagiaire party down by Avenue Louise. I take a moment though to get on the internet. Rolf is driving down, but he’s not driving back until much later, and I have work on Monday. So I check the flight prices, they are only for a few days away and so they are predictably way expensive (over 200 euros for a one way ticket). I quickly email Anna and Nikhil, two mates from the LSE who I know are working for the UN down there, asking if they’d be able to put me up, and if they know any cheap ways down. I head out to the party and meet Mads, the NATO interns follow not long after. We’re in a bar themed like its Indochina with old wooden panels and low couches and cushions, its so humid and stuffy one can almost believe that its Saigon. I stay quite late and catch a cab home with Mads and the Dutch intern Arthur.

Standing at the bus stop to NATO the next morning I feel exhausted, I get into work and check my email and see Anna has written me, saying that Brussels airlines will fly me back Sunday for as little as 30 euros, and that it doesn’t get much better than that. I check and to my surprise its true, whatever magical formula determines the fare price has decided to offer up the fares quite cheap, so I book my Sunday return for the evening and tell Rolf I’m game. Using my lunch break to go home and pack a rucksack I get back to NATO in time to wrap up some work and we’re off. Unfortunately we were a little late leaving NATO and so we’ve hit the rush hour jam.


Crawling our way south to Switzerland we start off by heading through the South-East of Belgium and pass through Luxembourg. Rolfs’ father collects the Euro coins from each nation and has every one except the one for Luxembourg, we buy some treats and get the change and find one. We then go on to North-East of France in the region of Alsace and Lorraine, producers of pretty good Riesling wine and historical bone of contention between France and Germany. The total distance is 900km, a very long haul for one afternoon/evening. We make it to the mountainous roads near the alps when sleep finally gets the better of me and I drift off, as I awake we approach the Swiss border. While Switzerland is not part of the EU’s border area, the border stations are seldom manned. We pass the empty hut for the customs officer and proceed onto Geneva. Its now half past one in the morning, and I am certain that all Nikhil and Anna have long gone to sleep. I’m happy to meet them at the train station not only awake, but healthily buzzed and ready to hit the scene. We head off to a club in an old factory called L’Usine (factory in French). Its dirty and the crowd is weird, but the visuals are great and the music’s good too. I haven’t got any Swiss Francs so Nikhil spots me. One of their friends’ is sober and has a car, so we drive off to Nikhil’s place and have a beer before crashing.

The next day we rush down to the train station to catch a train into town. Nikhil lives in a suburb connected on a railway, unfortunately I have no francs and so I can’t buy a ticket. We ride for a few stops but Nikhil thinks he spots the commuting police, and a big fine is the last thing I want. So we get off a stop early near the UN. I walk up past the rear of the UN building, the Palais des Nations, old home of the UN’s predecessor the League of Nations. In front of the main gates are the fountains and a giant sculpture of a three legged chair, one blown off as a symbol for the evils of landmines. We head off to meet Anna and Muhabbat and take a tram to the centre. They do some shoe shopping while Nikhil and I head for the lake.

The lake in Geneva is beautifully clear, something totally exceptional for water in a major city centre. Generally the water that runs into a city is disgusting, but this one is clean and we see many people swimming. In the distance lies the giant Jet d’eau spouting 140 meters into the air, the world’s tallest fountain. We meet some girls Nikhil knows and lie out on the grass, we have some beers and a bottle of Rose Nikhil had brough, just soaking up the sun and enjoying the view of lake/mountains/beautiful buildings/sail ships. Anna and Muhabbat call and tell Nikhil that they had brought lunch, Nikhil omitted to mention that we were in the company of 4-5 other girls and they arrived unimpressed and offended. Anna and Muhabbat head off while I was sleeping on the grass, which is really too bad since I was hoping we could all hang out. The tiff caused by this but a bit of a sour note on things sadly. Nikhil and I head back to his house and have dinner, and though Nikhil does have a few ideas of possible entertainment he’s exhausted and naps, while he does so I get tired and we decide to simply call it a night.

The next morning I wake up early and head on my own to walk the old part of the city, I get on a bus and down to the old city hall, the cobbled streets and old walls. I call Anna up who meets me for a coffee at a park, but she’s quite rushed because she has to meet another friend of hers. I’m due to meet Nikhil at two so I grab a large ham and cheese crepe to eat on the grass, and then head off. Nikhil and I walk the sea wall, and meet Anna and Muhabbat and her friend. Together we wander past the World Trade Organisation and a botanical garden. We come to a wall painted by school children, one of them in the style of comic panels, I get a few laughs by interpreting the story of a scientist getting giant flowers addicted to drugs. We finish off with a beer back at the lake, enjoying what was one of the last really sunny days for Northern Europe. Over 2 months later I don’t think there’s been a day like that yet. I rush off to the train station and catch a train to the airport to return to Brussels.

Colombian Visit

A while back the Ambassador of Colombia to Brussels had sent a letter requesting that we provide some briefings for officers from the Escuela superior de Guerra de Colombia. I was passed the tasker and began to organize everything into place. I was sitting in my office awaiting their call, even though its late June it was overcast, rainy, and 17 degrees. My phone rings, its one of the speakers I’ve got planned, he’s called to say the Colombians are at the gate and that security has no idea who they are.

Running down with the secretary we arrive at the gate where firstly we cannot find the Colombians, they had apparently taken refuge from the rotten weather inside their van. I call up a senior fellow in security and am sufficiently stressed to use my French without the usual self-consciousness of how bad my accent must sound. Having cleared the issue the Colombians are passed through security and brought to the conference room.

The presentation goes smoothly, all the usual messages and so its maybe just a little dull. I had arranged one of the speakers, a Colonel from Spain, to deliver his speech in Spanish which they seemed more responsive to. At the end of the brief a Colombian Navy Captain thanked us on behalf of the Country, the President, themselves, etc, and presented some medals to the speakers, engraved with their Colombian Army’s coat of arms.

I escort the embassy’s Counselor and the delegation, half a dozen Colonels and a one star general, back to the main gate as it starts to rain, welcoming them to Brussels in June. At the gate the Navy Captain also hands me a medal and thanks me for my help, I shake their hands and see them off, happy to have my first IR trinket.

(Almost) Dropped the ball

I was just so busy that week. The main task was to prepare all the materials for the delegation of NATO officials headed to Beijing. I had spent a few weeks compiling all the policy work, all the background info, researching the history of NATO-China relations to lay the institutional memory down on paper.

NATO is more than any representative, it is a political organ that in many ways has its own political personality. Such a development is hardly a surprise, in fact it’s a necessary component for NATO’s interactions. NATO has a history, its has beliefs, it makes statements and makes future statements that are consistent with what it has said before. This gives the organization the traits of predictability, stability, transparency, and makes it more credible and dependable. If NATO was whatever any given person made it, it would be an anarchic organisation that no one would understand that no one would want to deal with.

So when I helped prepare the materials for our Ambassador, it was to help him assume that political personality, to speak on behalf of NATO and to respond on behalf of NATO. Such a task requires an enormous amount of information, and it can take the work of a dozen people to prep a single delegation to visit a country. And so when my boss issued me another task for a later date, I promptly “prioritized” it to the bottom.

It was a simple request, someone else was doing what I was doing, only it was to prepare the Secretary-General to visit Canada. I was asked to contribute our sections’ part of the NATO-personality.

I was having a relaxing Saturday. The night before the NATO interns had a going away party for Mark, a colleague on his way to Afghanistan. I had lunch with Mark and shot the breeze, and said my goodbyes before going home. I was all relaxed when I decided to open up google news to see if there was any headline worth reading:

“NATO Chief Visits Ottawa – Speaks with Prime Minister”

Its at this point that my heart sunk deep down into my chest, oh my god, I know that mission, I was supposed to provide inputs for that, I forgot!! I spent the entire Sunday brooding, knowing that I had earned myself a good lecturing. What bothered me was that I also do these requests for information from NATO’s various sections, and I know they slip out of people’s memory, which is why I remind people at least once, and often hound them multiple times.

I entered work early Monday morning and turned on my PC, I open the original email and print off the request. A quick glance tells me why I never got a reminder, the information requests for policy areas completely outside our section, mostly related to the Operations division. Knowing that nothing was required of me provides me with a sigh of relief, and a sufficient stinging to pay closer attention next time.

Hail to Chief

NATO HQ is principally a civilian organisation. Granted its concerned with security issues and has a deep connection with the armed forces, but one of the founding values of the organisation is that at the end of the day it must be civilians who govern the military. This assumption is an unquestionable part of the organisation, soldiers are the servants of their government.

One of the key differences between the civilian world and the military one, is the notion of rank. As civilians, we don’t have ranks “per se” but instead have job titles and responsibilities. There is a system of seniority, but by and large all colleagues operate on a general basis of equality.

On various occasions this has led me to interesting situations. When visiting a delegation on any given task, I might need to speak with a military man in charge of something I’m working on. I believe the highest rank I’ve needed to work with would be at the level of a Colonel. Even though this older man stands opposite me in his uniform with the medals, pins, peaked hat, and probably routinely orders young men my age to do push-ups or rush into gunfire, in this particular context we speak as equals.

Even so, NATO still has a clear hierarchy. We may be equals as colleagues, but in so far as work is concerned, one always has a supervisor. That role is like a captain’s hat, and someone must always wear it. If the captain is gone, he passes it to the person right below him. And for a couple days, the hat got passed all the way to me!

It was a funny thing, sitting in the regular meeting of my section, everyone realized that their missions were overlapping. Despite their best attempts to avoid it, and my boss’ sentiment that they could “surely not” leave me on my own, a period of 2 days was unavoidable. In fairness, I had barely been doing the job for a month, but there was nothing to be done. The Friday before the weekend everyone briefed me on what they were doing, just in case anything came up, and I left that day knowing that Monday morning I would be the acting head of the Mediterranean Dialogue, Istanbul Cooperation Initiative and Contact Countries section, within Regional, Economic and Security Affairs within the Political Affairs and Security Policy division….now that’s a mouthful!

The first task was to be the notetaker for a meeting between our division’s deputy assistant sec-gen (DASG) and a delegation from Colombia including their Deputy Defence Minister and the Ambassador to Brussels. The meeting had fallen off the radar and Gilles had asked me to set up a quick meeting with someone also in the International Military Staff, I was luckily able to book time with a Turkish Admiral. I followed the secretary down to the main entrance where I found the Colombians waiting, feeling more than a little underqualified I hesitantly walked up and introduced myself. The minister is a younger man, I don’t know him, but if I were to judge him from appearance alone I would say ambitious technocrat, probably American educated. I guide them to the DASG’s office and then onwards for their meeting with an Admiral from the IMS. As I escort them back to the main doors the minister has a brief moment of small talk with me, letting me know I can contact him if ever I find myself in Colombia. On our way out we are intercepted by a German military officer, the man who will take them to the Supreme Headquarters (SHAPE) in Mons. Relieved to have the meeting done smoothly I return to my office to write my report of the meeting.

Day 2 was arranged to be a quiet one, and it almost was. The morning started with me sitting at my desk and getting a call from the secretary “Chris the Ambassador of Egypt has called for Alberto, may I put him through to you”
“Uhhhhhh……..”

The contents of that conversation, while amusing, remain in the realm of confidentiality. But that aside it was all going quite easily until that damn letter came.

At NATO they have introduced an interesting committee mechanism to facilitate the problems of multilateral diplomacy between 26 countries. Instead of having countries offer their approval on things, NATO operates under what is called a silence procedure. The silence procedure is a period during which any country may object, but assuming that no one does the motion will carry. A few weeks ago I had been asked to draft a document for the Political Committee, asking it to approve a few contact countries (non-NATO countries outside Europe), to participate in some NATO activities related to disarmament. Its quite common to invite some countries to these activities since it helps foster a practical working relationship and develops greater transparency and awareness of NATO. However the countries outside Europe are a somewhat controversial topic, as many NATO Allies have long term about the Alliance becoming a global organisation.

The letter is written in formal French, and its easy to see how French existed as the language of diplomacy for so long. The structure of the letter remains courteous and gracious, and subtly disguises the intention of being a deliberate pain in the butt. In fairness everyone is entitled to their opinions, but essentially the French were demanding that a bureaucratic procedure, which was deliberately being avoided due to an impending time constraint, notwithstanding demand it be observed. It created a big headache for me, since the issue had to be dealt with ASAP in order for the countries to still participate in the activity. But how can you be mad at a letter when it so eloquently ends with

“Je vous prie de croire, Monsieur le Président, en l’expression de ma parfaite considération”

The sentence loses its particular style when translated into English, but if I were to try, it would sound like

I beseech you to accept, Mr. Chairman, the assurances of my highest consideration

Well sure, 2 hours of work, sounds ok to me, you asked so nicely I couldn’t even begin to be bothered!

On the one plus side, it did require me to write a document and sign it myself, Chris Yung, Acting-Head, MICC/PASP, thereby providing paper evidence to live on in the NATO archive, possibly according to a colleague, as the youngest acting-head in the organisation’s history.

At the end of the day there is a meeting among all the section heads for a debriefing by the big division boss, the ASG. I attend the meeting, sitting opposite my former section head, once his intern, now heading a section of my own! Well…until the rest of the day at least.

Bouillon on the Semois

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The town of Bouillon is situated in the Belgian province of Luxembourg, adjacent to the country of the same name. Our destination for the day is the town of Bouillon (like the soup). Unfortunately the town is not connected by Belgium’s rail system, and so the adventure begins with a run to Brussels-Schuman station to catch a southbound train for Libramont. Our train arrives just before 11 and we exit to see that there are few buses daily to Bouillon, and that the next one arrives at noon. At this point we take a look to the left and right and realize what a complete crap hole we’re in, but we decide to walk about and explore. The town is completely shut up, and all we’re looking for is a place to get a café and croissant. We walk the empty roads and finally find a small coffee house open, there’s no café a emporter (take away), but we get a pair of croissants in a paper bag and head back to the train station, resolved that getting stuck here for the day would be a fate worse than death.

The bus arrives and its another 45 minutes to Bouillon, a kindly Chinese family on the bus gives Tatevik and I a map, and we start our walk to the castle. Bouillon castle dominates the town bellow it, strategically placed on a hill and on the river, it seems able to guard against every direction. We walk the cobbled roads to the top where we pay our entrance fee and cross the draw bridge in. Unlike many Medieval castles such as the Tower of London, the castle in Bouillon has not been subjected to extensive work to make it more like a museum. As one walks through the dark mud flooded passages of the castle, it feels like a castle, and not an exhibit of a castle. At one point Tatevik and I crawl down a low-ceilinged crevice completely unlit to discover we were inside some sort of drainage system. This along with walkways without guard rails, dangerous stone steps, and puddles of mud and lack of light make it arguable less pleasant, but I personally found that it kept the castle more authentic. I have long grown tired of huge light up displays with an interactive display panels and crappy speakers pumping poor recordings of era music.

We emerge from the castle to see a show with a falconer, with his giant leather glove and various pets, performing tricks. After the castle we descend back in town and sit at a restaurant to have a couple croque monsieurs (a French cheese toasty with ham and a fried egg). We head on the river and hire a paddle boat to see the town from the Semois river which runs through the middle. We paddle the length of the town, and occasionally amuse ourselves by chasing down ducks. As the day wears on we finish with a beer at a café on the street and then begin our 2.5 hour trek back to Brussels.

Knokke Heist

I hurry out of NATO headquarters and into the warm sunlight with particular eagerness, because I know it’s the last sunny day we are due to have for the next week. I meet Tatevik at the Gare Central and we head outside to eat our packed lunch before boarding our train for Knokke-Heist. The town is situated in the north in Flanders, on the North Sea. Our train takes us eastward past Ghent and Brugges, and despite nearly being on the wrong train car before the train was split (one must always take care in Europe and one can never ask “am I on the right train” enough times).

Knokke is an affluent beach community, as the shops and restaurants clearly indicate. We forgo the rental charge for beach chairs and lay out our towel to lie down. The water is cold, and full of jelly fish, but the sun is warm and its nice to enjoy what seems like summer for only a moment. We walk the length of the beach, and I take occasional pleasure by throwing Tatevik on my shoulder and spinning her until she can’t stand. We’re tempted to wait until dusk but the air is growing cool, so we opt to return to Brussels.

Back in Brussels we head to Kebab alley by the grand place, and tuck into some massiver Doners before heading into the main square to watch some of the Jazz Festival. I’m exhausted and barely standing, so when it gets close to last metro I’m hugely relieved to catch it home.

Namur-Dinant a Velo

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The Ravel trails criss-cross southern Wallonia, dozens of connected walking and bike paths catalogued into several books sold at tourist info stops. Its at one such into booth that Tatevik and I buy our copy of Ravel 2 (Hooegarden to Mariembourg). We’re in the Wallonian capital of Namur where I had been a few months earlier, but our destination is Dinant, a small town at the foot of a rock cliff on the meuse river.

To our huge annoyance, the bike rental shop at the trains station is not open on Saturday or Sunday (typical Belgium), so we hike south past the city citadel to rent from another bike shop. In Holland the bike rental places were quick, offered good bikes, and were cheap. This place is the opposite of all three. Having sat around for over 30 minutes we finally leave with our “velo d’occassion”, a rusty red piece of crap with slippery handlebars and no shock absorbers. Still we’re off.

Our first snag comes only a couple kilometres outside Namur, we realize we are on the wrong side of the river and have to double back nearly the entire distance to cross the bridge to resume on the right side. Dinant is only 27km away from Namur, but on our slow bikes and on occasionally hellish cobble paths our progress is less than spectacular. The path follows the river, making the guidebook slightly redundant, but it is fun to track our progress. We stop at a booth at Profondeville to buy artisinale strawberries and then in Godine to have some lunch by the river. We pass all the sights of the trail including the castles and large manor homes, the houses sitting at the foot of the cliffs or on top of them, a horse drawn wedding carriage, the various lockes and the boats chugging upstream, and a bridge with the guardrails broken where a car fell into the meuse.

The day is getting on and we realize that our time in Dinant will be very short. Cycling back is out of the question so we buy some train tickets and then power trip into the town. The first sight is the huge citadel that sits above the entire town. We take a gondola up and take in the views. Aside from having a high vantage point there’s little else to see, a free tour does take people about but it is 70 minutes in length and we are time pressed as it is. So we descend and enter the church at the foot of the cliff. As we walk about we do a quick circuit of the town, and observe a group of men in matching cyclist outfits enjoying some beers in the sun, the same men who sped past us miles back. A quick glance at my watch tells me we’re already late and we cycle down to the station. I don’t know where to put my bike so I just take it on the train, a mistake since it crowds the corridor. The bikes are due back sharply at 5 and our train arrives exactly then. I’m worried about the shop closing and being stuck with nowhere to put the bikes and a large bill. So we begin to cycle from the station, but Namur is in the midst of a weekend festival and everywhere is blocked by ambling people, and idiot parents who drive their strollers right in front of me. We manage to finally make it to the shop and drop off our gear. Feeling peckish and deserving of our reward, we buy chocolate covered coffee ice cream bars from a grocery store and have them on a bench outside.

The next destination is the Namur citadel, something I had seen on my previous visit to Namur but which I couldn’t explore too fully because my flatmates wanted to get back to Brussels. We walk to the top of the citadel and follow its path to mansion home at the rear, past what must have once been a parade ground. At the back of the hill we enter an ancient-greek style outdoor theatre, rows of stone seats arrange in a semi arc. My first step into the place is on a muddy puddle making a loud splash, prompting a groan, a laugh, and an applause from a group of people above. I take a moment to bow and we walk on. It is at this point that we get rather lost and attempt to circle back through the woods, winding up on a very slippery and muddy hillside, descending by grabbing trees on the way down. We finally make our way to the side of the citadel which is virtually empty, and we cross up through the drawbridge back to the main ramps.

On this particular weekend Namur is having a springfest, and we have noticed street performers here and there. Having finished our meal we wander off to first watch a puppet show. What attracted me most was the set, an old and likely authentic travelling puppet stage, an antique with incredible details and craftsmanship. The entire carriage is an antique with wood crafted figures in the sides painted in gold, large painted doors and red velvet curtains. This along with the other props stirs my imagination and keeps Tatevik and I standing and waiting for the show finally to begin. Unfortunately the actors lack both talent and enthusiasm, and the brief introduction of the show is full of moments when the audience ought to be applauding but instead one hears polite clapping mostly to cover a measure of embarrassment.

Being both exhausted and sweaty I lead Tatevik to a restaurant that I had discovered on my previous visit with my flatmates. The Maman Gourmandise sits in a pedestrian alley opposite the Papa Gourmandise, a restaurant with a striking similarity to the Pain Quotidien in Brussels, it offers us some tasty salads and some rosé to match our new super healthy lifestyles. After dinner we wander on to watch the Johnny Show. The show consists of acrobatics performed by a woman comically being spun inside and outside of a giant spinning clock. While repetitive it is quite talented and we watch it from beginning to end. Our vantage point being just behind the clock where we watch the actresses’ collaborator quickly arrange a series of cranks and spins and musical numbers to make the appearance from the front seem flawless.

While we could return to the station to catch the train we opt to wait an hour and catch the next one to enjoy the town some more. We wander towards a large beer garden with a tent marked Cabaret. Inside we see a stage and ventriloquist, its at this point that the affairs becomes a little bit trippy, done up in the style of century old carnivals. We order a couple drinks and sit at a table next to an enormous funhouse mirror, distorting us into midgets. Tatevik sips a bright red and fruity kriek while I stick with one of the countless beers whose name I will never remember.

Leaving the beer garden we walk along the street and finally come across the walking dinosaurs. Three street actors in the most incredible costumes. They walk in stilts and are inside dinosaur outfits, their heads being placed roughly below the dinosaurs’ necks. The dinosaurs are perhaps 15 feet tall, and they have large bobbing heads at the top of a long neck controlled by hidden wires. The actors inside can raise and lower the necks, and executing this action quickly causes the dinosaur’s jaw to clap. The eyes glisten like jewels and the costume is richly textured and decorated. Inside each dinosaur outfit is also a speaker system so that the tree dinos play an odd music synchronized, combined with the occasional dinosaur call which sounds like a cross between a bird and a whale call.

We follow the dinosaurs for a bit, and at one point one turns on us to snap its jaws, giving Tatevik a bit of a stir. We could have followed them for longer however we are pressing our luck with the trains, and so we walk back to the Namur station. Upon arriving there we know that there ought to be a train coming, but there is none listed. At the time where our train ought to arrive there is a train to Luxembourg, the opposite direction. Adding to this confusion is that there are 2 display boards in the station. One of them illustrates a daily schedule, which indeed confirms at least 2 more trains due for Brussels. The other illustrates trains actually in the station and those scheduled to arrive, and that one only shows 2 trains docked in that station that night due to leave, but neither to Brussels. The train to Luxembourg arrives and we see a dozen people run up the stairs and head to the train for Chareloi, due to leave in a few moments. Charleloi is another town south where an airport is located, and I’m tempted to head there since I feel it would likely be easier to get back to Brussels. We head down to the Luxembourg platform and finally find a station worker who tells us that there’s no more trains to Brussels that night, I hurriedly ask him if we can take the train to Charleloi to get home and he says yes, but that it leaves in a minute. We run for our dear lives up the stairs and down the station, desperate not to get stuck in Namur. We board the train and make it to Charleloi. True to his word, there is a final train going to Brussels, a slow one that stops at every station on the rout which takes us hours to get us home. We arrive past the last metros and so we walk from the Gare Central back to my flat, well exercised to say the least.

Holland Day 2 - Leiden and Rotterdam

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The beach is windy and sand is blowing in the air, the sea is cold and covered in a foam. The only protection are the wind shelters erected here and there, the crummy looking ones are free, the good ones are for rent. I find it amusing that northern Europeans are prepared to endure cold wind and sit behind a shelter so they can’t even see the sea, just so they can have their day at the beach ;)

The route back to Brussels is not direct, and we made many stops on the way there but only to switch trains. On the way back we decide to do a little exploring. Our first stop is Leiden, an old university town. From the train station we walk along the canal to see the pretty buildings and iron bridges, and the small boats travelling across the town. The town also has a few windmills, one of which is right next to my colleague Arthur’s house. The highlight of the visit is a small round fort at the top of a hill giving a full view of the town. We take a moment to take all the usual hilarious photos, the group shot of everyone falling into a well stands out as an instant classic. From there we follow the usual paths along cobbled streets, through the churches and squares.

As part of our long series of running for trains we hustle to try and catch a train to Rotterdam but miss it because our overstuffed locker would not release our bags. After having some station people fiddle with it for nearly 20 minutes the locker finally opens to our great relief. The day is getting long, people are getting tired, and tempers are getting shorter. We head off to view the town and are instantly divided between those who want to meander in the shopping area, and those who want to simply look at architecture. At the Erasmus bridge we divide, and Rickard, Christina and I head off.

For 2007 Rotterdam is the “international city for architecture”, and the titles is well deserved. Everywhere you look you can see that buildings were built with an innovative sense of aesthetics, and that great care and detail has been paid to most buildings. The city was destroyed in World War 2 providing the opportunity to re-invent it from scratch, and the cities’ architects certainly did not pass up on the opportunity. However the weather is grey and beginning to rain, and while the buildings are fine to look at, our mindset is wrong to appreciate them. To make matters worse, we suddenly realize that we are late. Christina, Rickard and I run for the train station, the train to Brussels is only once an hour and we earnestly want to catch this one. I run ahead to retrieve our bags from the locker, Christina shows up without any sign of Rickard. We head to the platform but he isn’t there either. He would miss the train and instead go to briefly see Dorderecht. However he would also miss his train there, and so he enjoys a repeat of our initial adventures while Christina and I head on simple straight route home.

Spring Tulip Trip to Holland

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The history of tulips is clouded and unclear, however their eventual introduction into Europe in the 15th Century led to a “Tulip era” or “Tulip frenzy”. To have a successful growing season, the bulbs require a frost winter, and so they are perfectly suited to the Northern European climate. The Netherlands was particularly affected by this new mania on Tulips, and in university-town of Leiden there was a famous Tulip breeding ground which was often the victim of theft. Near to that town lies Keukenhof gardens, one of the major tourist attractions in Holland. A massive Tulip garden among the tulip fields, it’s the must-see for every Japanese and Chinese tourist with a camera.

We start our day a little late, but finally emerge from the hostel to go buy directions to the garden, and hire some bikes. It had been at least a year if not more since I was on a bike, but as they say, you never forget. I entrust Rickard with our directions (since he found the bike shop whereas I nearly got us lost), and we’re off. The bike lanes in the Netherlands are wonderful, paved and smooth, flat, and free from cars. We bike along horses, sand dunes, canals, and fields of tulips. We quickly realize however we’re just too late, most of the bulbs have dropped.

Keukenhof however advertises itself as open until mid-may, and so through their efforts we are still treated to the sight of dozens of types of Tulips. We spend a couple hours in the garden before biking back to Nordwijk to return our bikes. After a desperate and short-tempered hunt for a place for dinner, we return to the hostel to rest and play UNO. At night a few of the brave of us do a pub crawl of the town’s establishments, rocking on until the lights are turned on.

Train Travel Chaos

Organising anything for a big group of people is a mess. When people are on their own, a part of their brain kicks in, they think independently and observe everything so that they can rely on themselves. In a group however, that part turns off, and people defer everything to the “leader”. This isn’t a character flaw particular to any one person, we’ve all been there and done that. When I travel alone I’ll read the street signs, check the map, get my bearings and know where I’m going, but if I’m in a group, I follow the back that’s in front of me.

I meet everyone at the Gare Centrale in Brussels, our train isn’t for another 15 minutes so Mads and Rickard and I head to the grocery shop to buy some snacks for dinner. It takes a little longer than planned, and we hussle back to the group to find they aren’t there, so they must be at the platform. We see the train schedule, our train is cancelled! Rickard goes to inquire while I call the other interns, we meet together to figure out what to do. Apparently someone was told that we could catch the train from Gare du Nord, so we run, all 14 of us.

The train should have left already but its running late, we arrive at Gare du Nord and head to the big train timetable. Our train is still cancelled. We ask the info lady, she suggests we take a train to Antwerp, its due to leave in a few minutes, so we run, all 14 of us.

The train to Antwerp arrives and our car smells from someone having gotten sick on the floor. Christina and I move further down and sit opposite two interesting Belgian characters for the ride. At Antwerp the train exits onto a crowded platform. It seems everyone, like us, is going to Rotterdam. Rickard runs up the many stairs to head to the info desk and we all follow. There isn’t one, but we ask someone on the platform who suggests we take the local train to Rosendal. The train is on the platform so we run, apparently only 12 of us.

Rosendal is in the Netherlands so at least now we’re crossing the border, and might connect to another train heading to our ultimate destination, Leiden. The train is packed so we all break up, I sit alone in a car. Katerina rings my cell so I pick-up,

“Hey where are you on the train”
“What train….?”

At that precise moment our train lurches forward, I tell Katerina to call me from Leiden and that I’ll guide her from there. I sit opposite a Dutch man and his son, maybe about 9 years old, I offer the kid some of my pretzels and his Dad and I share small talk, he did his PhD in Seattle and like most Dutch people speaks perfect English. At Rosendal we look for a train going to Rotterdam, its already on the platform and ready to leave, so we run, all 12 of us.

Sweating and exhausted we sit on another local train and a young woman next to us asks where we are going. We say Leiden, she suggests that the best way to save time is to skip Rotterdam and to get off at Dorderecht, and then take a train straight to Leiden. We thank her and hop off the train. We look across the tracks wondering which train is ours. We see one waiting to go and joke “well that must be it right?” We all laugh, meanwhile Rickard squints his eyes and reads its sign “Its ours!! And he darts off”. So we run after him, all 12 of us.

We finally arrive at Leiden and head for the bus stop. The bus drops us at the Nordwijk lighthouse, we can feel the brisk air coming off the North Sea. We find our way to the hostel and after a very difficult check-in (the idiot wanted to charge me for an extra bed I had cancelled, even for the following night despite the fact I told him there was nobody else coming). We calm our nerves with some pints and some laughs. Katerina and Monica arrive about 20 minutes after us, having avoided most of the nightmare by simply waiting at Antwerp for the next fast-train to Rotterdam.