A Chautauqua

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

2007-10-11T19:03:00.001+01:00

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

2007-10-11T18:50:00.001+01:00

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

2007-10-11T18:30:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-11T18:17:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-11T16:18:00.000+01:00

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

2007-10-11T16:15:00.001+01:00

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

2007-06-29T10:09:00.004+01:00

Photos: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2032972&l=3cffd&id=37002455

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

2007-06-29T10:09:00.003+01:00

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

2007-06-29T10:09:00.001+01:00

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

2007-06-29T10:06:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-22T08:17:00.002+01:00

Photos http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2034936&l=d7bef&id=37002455

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

2007-06-22T08:17:00.001+01:00

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

2007-06-22T08:13:00.002+01:00

Full album: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2034378&l=60276&id=37002455

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

2007-06-22T08:13:00.001+01:00

Full Album: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2033450&l=66b19&id=37002455

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

2007-06-22T08:12:00.002+01:00

Full Album: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2033450&l=66b19&id=37002455

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

2007-06-22T08:12:00.001+01:00

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.

Namur Day Trip with the Flatmates!

2007-05-16T13:54:00.001+01:00

Full Album: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2030442&l=5dd5b&id=37002455

Before my great big Baltic Adventure there was a day trip to Namur, it seems ages ago but I never had the chance to write about it here. It was the Saturday morning before my flight and I was sitting at my flat having coffee and breakfast with my flatmates. I knew that Madeline and Rickard were off to Namur for the day, partly because it would allow them to finally catch a train from the Gare de Brussels-Schuman near our house, and also to use up the last of Mads’ Belgium rail card. Namur is a city in southern Belgium which is called Waloonia, it is inhabited by French-speaking Belgians which are distinct from the Dutch speaking Belgians in northern Flanders. Generally the Dutch Belgians are more well-to-do than the Southern Waloonians, and so we were all suspicious that Namur would be run-down and dirty. However Namur is the capital of Waloonia so we were pleasantly surprised.

We caught the train near our house and travelled South. The first thing that struck us is how modern the train station appeared, with its steel catwalks and glass elevator, it seemed quite of place for Belgium. Like many old European towns, Namur has its old buildings and narrow streets. It’s a sunny day so we stop to lunch at a resteraunt called “Maman’s” with a restaurant named “Pappa’s” just opposite. We sit outside and I order what the Brits would call a “Jacket Potato”, but in England this usually entails a baked potato sliced with a filler such as cheese or chilli. I was charmed when I was presented a hollowed out bake potato filled with diced chicken cooked in a dijon mustard, topped with whipped potatoes, which was re-baked to brown the top, along with a nice salad J

We walk along the river canal (the Meuse) to see the main attraction of Namur, a medieval era citadel built atop the hill. The Citadel had seen many battles (including a 3 day battle against advancing German troops in WW2). After climbing up the stairs and long ramps I could immediately sympathize with every poor French/Spanish/German/Belgian bugger in uniform who was tasked with charging up to the walls while being fired at from above.

We walk around the Citadel past its draw bridge and up to the top where a former residence is now a perfume house. A small tourist train-bus carts people about through the tunnels and roads on the top. We take in the view and some photos before walking back through the town to return to Brussels.

End of the Baltic Adventure

2007-05-16T13:53:00.001+01:00

It’s the perfect lazy morning, the official checkout is noon but I figure we have until at least 1 without facing any hassles from the front desk. We head to the train station to figure out which buses we should take, Tatevik needs to take a bus to her ferry terminal for the ship to Tallinn, and I need to go to the Ryanair airport which is predictable 90 minutes away in the middle of nowhere. I buy my ticket and take Tatevik to lunch, in retrospect we probably should have gone to the café at the main cultural centre (something along the lines of the Pompidou centre in Paris), but we opt for the Mongolian BBQ, partly because Tatevik has never had it before, and partly because I’m a sad sucker for all-you-can-eats. Very full, we walk back to the station and wait for my bus to arrive. Tatevik’s leaves shortly after mine but she waits with me on the bus platform for a long time. The bus station also has airlock doors and I’m worried about her ability to get back into the station (there was not button to open it from the outside), but she gets in alright, it was such a nice trip, which makes the goodbye so hard.

The bus ride is long since the airport is so far away, out in the country there is still snow on the ground. I board my plane and sit by the window, a girl sits next to me and asks “you live with Madeline right?” I turn around and I don’t recognize the face at first, but some small talk jiggles the memory loose, Place Luxembourg where all the Brussels youth go for their Friday pints. Madeline’s friend Liliane, by a strange coincidence, was in Stockholm the weekend I was, went to see music at the same bar as I was, had her birthday on Sunday as mine was, took the same Ryanair flight as I did, and sat next to me.

Its soooo weird.

Liliane was spending the weekend with her boyfriend, and three of us are Brussels bound so we make a pack and head to the coach for town. All in all the expedition takes over 5 hours, but I’m finally back in Brussels, ready for bed.

April 8 - Stockholm Day 3 (Aka Happy Birthday to me!!!)

2007-05-16T13:52:00.000+01:00

Photo 1:
http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2031364&l=76286&id=37002455
Photo2:
http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2032033&l=5f30f&id=37002455

Twenty-four, its an odd age, I’ve personally found that as I get older there aren’t the same landmarks for each year. As a kid each year feels like something new, and I would often feel that even the difference of one grade was a huge gap. The landmarks I see are as follows:

Age 8: I turn 8 on the 8th, that’s pretty cool
Age 10: Double digits
Age 13: Teenager
Age 16: Can apply for a learners’ license
Age 18: Rated R movies, voting, bars in Quebec
Age 19: Bars in Ontario, full adult privileges in Canada
Age 20: No longer a teen, adulthood
Age 21: Full adult privileges in the US

However 22, 23, and now 24 sorta mould together into a continuum simply known as the “early 20’s”. They have been the most fun years I think I’ve ever had, and probably the ones were I grew the most in ways that I decided for myself. I’m looking forward to 25 when I can finally rent a car…

We start the day by checking out, we make a big breakfast to use up all the food we left in the fridge, big egg and cheese sandwiches using ungodly amounts of cheddar. We haul our bags down to the Sheraton and are pleased to learn that our room is available for check-in right away. Our room was on a discount, because instead of looking at the sea it looks at another building, and its got an odd smell, not a really bad one, just one that you notice and then you get used to it after 5 minutes and don’t re-notice it until you leave. It may not be the “5 Stars” that it advertises itself as, but its still got a big huge double bed and its right in the centre. We have to hustle right away though, our Stockholm cards will expire soon and there’s one last attraction we hope to see. The guided tour of the Stockholm City hall, where the dinner for the Nobel Prize is given. We arrive just before the noon tour but are told that its already full, using my smiling powers of persuasion I ask if we can buy the tickets for the 2pm tour, using our Stockholm cards now (which were due to expire in about 30 min), The guide agrees and we get our tickets. With a couple hours to kill we wander to the back garden that looks onto the sea and take photos, the sun is out and it feels warmer. We catch the bus and take a look at the dance museum, and then inadvertently take a free look at the Mediterranean Museum as well. Back at the city hall we take the tour through the building’s many decadent rooms, even though it appears old it was actually built in the early 20th century. Leaving the City Hall we visit the Museum of Medieval Stockholm, passing by the water we can actually see men standing up to their thighs in the stream, fishing.

We head back to the Absolut Ice Bar, when we were turned away the previous night I asked if I could make a booking for Sunday, but apparently they were full. We decide to show up anyways though and try our luck, the lady at the desk tells us that a family with a child went in and they might not stay their entire 45 min slot, so that if we wait we can take theirs. We wait on the couch and luckily she’s right, so we head to the back where they hand us large overcoats with a hood to put on, flashy silver with a fake fur trim. There’s an airlock door to keep the cold air of the bar inside, we step and head to the ice bar. The pricey admission at least comes with your first drink, all made with Absolut, and all pretty good looking, I get a spiced Caesar served in an ice glass, square shaped with hole drilled in the middle. The glasses are actually quite useless in terms of design, it’s a square shape which is difficult to hold, and because its made of ice you only want to handle it with your gloves. There’s ice bar tables but they are starting to melt making their tops slippery, Tatevik only gets through about half of hers before the ice glass slides and shatters on the floor! Still the atmosphere is neat, an ice bench at the back has fur pelts on it and the ice is designed with citrus slices, shapes of bottles, and some cubes have lights installed in them. Its pure novelty, more of a photo op than anything else, even though much of the ice was melting it was quite chilly though, and when our times comes up we we’re happy to go into the slightly above freezing weather outside.

Later in the evening Tatevik and I head to a music venue not far from the Katarina lift, where we listen to some local Swedish talent play their tunes. The bar is cool, in many ways it reminds me of the Troubadour Café near my flat in London, though much nicer since it isn’t in a basement. Unfortunately we head off a little early to return to our hotel where we hoped to use the hotel’s spa, but most sadly it was closed for renovations. We take a drink at the hotel bar near the fireplace, sipping amaretto and slightly sad that tomorrow the vacation ends.

Day 2 - Making the most of the Stockholm Day Card!

2007-05-16T13:49:00.000+01:00

Photos: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2032033&l=5f30f&id=37002455

The Stockholm Day card gives the bearer entrance to over 75 attractions and free metro rides, which is great but its bloody expensive (up to 540 SEK for 72 hours), I normally shy away from spending money on a pass and instead opt for the flexibility of just going with the flow, but the cost of Stockholm is such that we could easily surpass the cost of that card, and so we accept that we will at least buy the card for 24 hours (290 SEK). Our goal thus became to gain the biggest value for our money, with our cards bought yesterday, a map, and a opening schedule (as a holiday weekend many are on reduced hours), we begin by hustling to catch a morning boat tour. The list of activities would be too long to run through, so in very simple graph form we did:

Cost of Stockholm Card: 290 SEK
Value of stuff we did 1020 SEK (3.5 times the value of the card)

As you can see we power-toured our asses off, in fairness the Statdshuset was done the following day (as a 24 hour card it was still valid the next morning). All in all the greatest value was for the palace, because the palace is a must see and because it is actually considered to be 4 attractions each with its own admission price (Apartments, Foundation, Treasury, Armoury). The most impressive display was the Vasa, however housing it by itself in a museum seem to be stretching it a little far (a whole museum dedicated to a ship that sink the Stockholm harbour….), Skansen was also great fun and struck me as a place that would nice to visit in summer. The aquarium offered us some welcomed warmth (its like a rain forest in there), and had a very nice coffee shop with tables right on the sea.

After our power trip we head back to the hostel to make some pizzas and are resolute about going out for the night. I flip through our options and feel that the Absolut Icebar is a great place to get started, however the bar is packed and waiting list is long, the bar can only hold about 30 people and they can stay as long as they like (unlike non-weekends when the max is 45 min). We decide to head off to the Opera House bar supposedly very chic, but a long walk. We get there and are told that the bar is booked for an event, guest list only. Feeling both cold, and frustrated, we finally opt for a bar having a student night. I am slightly unimpressed and probably more moody than I should have been, still we have a beer, have a dance, and head back.

Arrival Stockholm

2007-05-16T13:48:00.000+01:00

Photos: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2032033&l=5f30f&id=37002455

We awake on the ship to watch the small islands of the Swedish inlet pass by. The route to Stockholm requires the ship to slow down and navigate the many channels leading to the city. Having passed the time-line, we have gained an hour on our morning and thus have extra time to pack up and take a quick look on the top deck as the ship pulls into port. I’m disappointed that unlike in Helsinki, the port we have come into is quite far from the city, in an industrial looking area. We head towards the information and desk and I instantly regret not having consulted them the night before when there was no one, the line at the desk is quite long. The ship has organized a bus to take passengers to the city centre for only 3 euros, and so we rush down and are among the last to climb on. Dropping us at the central train station, we try to gain our bearings to make our way to our hostel. I had booked us a private room at the Långholmen, a hotel and hostel built inside a converted prison. My flatmate Katarina had recommended the place as being inside a nice park, which I’m sure it is in summer, but now it seems a bit of a trek and too far from the city centre. We get a bit lost which dampers our enthusiasm, and are instantly shocked that our metro ride to the hostel costs 80 Kr for two (about 9 euros). However we realize that we had in fact been sold a ticket for all regions in Stockholm (whereas we only needed region 1), even so we realize that this town is quite a bit more expensive than our previous destinations, in fact it is almost comparable to London.

We finally find the hostel but immediately start considering switching, the trek was demoralizing and we realize that if we are out late we may face a difficult return home. On the plus side the metro runs until 3am in Stockholm, an unheard of time in Europe! Our room is a former jail cell which in itself is quite novel, but as far as hostels go it is actually closer to a hotel. Linens and towels do cost extra to rent, however we have an en-suite bathroom and shower, a small flat screen on the wall, a desk, and other amenities one never receives at a hostel. The only downside is the size of the room, with bunk beds (we push the top one into the wall), there is only a small distance between the bed and the wall.

We decide to head out and start by looking into another hostel, the only other hostel which interest me is City Backpackers located near the train station which is very well reviewed on the hostel websites, however they are full, so we accept our “imprisonment” at Långholmen for at least the 2 nights. One the 3rd night I have the Sheraton booked as a birthday present to myself.

We buy metro day cards, mostly out of the shock at our 40 Kr single trip, which makes the 90 Kr day pass seem a bargain (though our calculations were off). We ride the metro back to Gamla Stan, the island containing the Palace and historical centre. We stroll about but the wind is cold and it actually begins to snow, further dampening our moods. To seek shelter from the wind we stumble into a side door of a building to find ourselves inside the Stockholm Cathedral (Storkyrkan), the building built in 1279 offers us some peace and warmth, and we slowly wander to appreciate it. Heading back outside we walk up towards the palace and stumble upon a changing of the guard, the sentries wear blue uniforms and helmets which remind me of the German ones from the first world war (with the little spike on the top). Unlike British sentries, these guards are free to move their legs about, smile back at tourists and even talk, it seems a bit lax, but then again it’s a bit of an archaic tradition anyways. Since we are headed to the palace tomorrow anyways we head off.

Tatevik visited Stockholm a few years ago with her family and recalls a shopping street under an arch. So we head to the main train station to inquire at the tourist office. The lady believes that she might know what Tatevik is referring to and circles a spot on a map she gives us. We also repay our 2nd visit to the cash machines and exchange offices, having quickly used up what the Kroners we had. We walk to the arch and the shopping street but it doesn’t seem to be what Tatevik remembered, we walk along past the shops and Tatevik buys a fleece headband to keep her ears warm, a red one to match her coat.

We ride the metro south, only because I had heard from several people that “the south is cool”. However we have no idea what we are specifically headed to. We exit by pure chance at the Katarinahissen, a giant outdoors elevator that my flatmate Katarina had mentioned to me. The landscape is such that a giant hill is right behind to road on the coast, there is a winding path leading up to the top of that hill, however the lift goes straight up 83 meters and then has a bridge that takes you to the top of the hill. We ride up to take in the views of the old town and wander, as I vaguely recall my flatmate Rickard telling me that there is a nice place for “cakes and tea” and a park behind the elevator. Certainly there might be in the summer, but the wind keeps people indoors, and so we walk to the nearest park which turns out to be a church with a large cemetery. From outside the church we can hear a classical concert being held and we peek inside, but aren’t interested in buying tickets. We meander down to a main square with a shopping centre, but everything is closed. Feeling a little exhausted we take the metro back to a grocery store to buy food for dinner and return to the hostel.

Cooking in the hostel we make a mushroom soup and some chicken, we’re eating when Harry Potter comes on, We finish watching the movie in our room and are on the verge of getting ready when Silence of the Lambs comes on, while we both know we ought to go out, I am tired, and Tatevik is still suffering her cold, so we opt for rest.

Night Ferry Helsinki-Stockholm

2007-05-15T09:38:00.001+01:00

Photos: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2032097&l=38d5a&id=37002455

I am instantly so incredibly glad that we did our ferry check-in first thing in the morning and have our key cards, the crowd is enormous, easily a few hours in length. We get our stuffed bags out of the luggage locker and head to the gate, the man checking the tickets says “Hey!” instantly causing Tatevik to stop in her tracks, but as we would later learn “Hey” is the Swedish version of “Hi” apparently.

As we cross up the ramp photographers take snapshots of all the passengers, for sale later on. The photographer catches Tatevik and I mid-stride carrying all our bags, it’s a pretty expensive picture at nearly 10 euros. The photographers print all the photos and pin them up and while handling the large A4 clip it struck me as a pretty nice memento, and buy it. Later on Tatevik and I would have a contest to try and find the worst photos, some people were certainly caught with less than their best smile, a whole wall of scowls, confused looks, kids picking their noses, etc.

We board the ship and head to our cabin on the 6th deck, we’ve got a seaside cabin and you can still see Helsinki out the starboard window (I think starboard is left..) Tatevik is exhausted and still feeling her cold, so she slumps on the bed while I head to the top deck to see the harbour a last time. I walk the windy deck taking photos of this and that and head back in too. I lie down next to Tatevik and fall asleep, only waking to hear the faint rumble of the engines and to see the scenery slowly move past out the window.

We wake up and unfortunately high winds are causing a noticeable tilt in the ship. I don’t really mind but since Tatevik isn’t feeling well anyways we get her a pill for motion sickness. We walk the decks to explore the ship, there’s a cinema showing movies but its 10 euros for a ticket, the same is true of spending 1 hour in their pool up top. Instead we head to the lower deck and buy some duty free for our room. Loaded with booze and snacks we make a few drinks and head out to catch the last few minutes of the tight rope walking act. Afterwards we watch a “preview” of the midnight show which really should have been a warning to avoid it later on. We head on to the top deck where they have Karaoke but all the singers are doing Finnish songs, so its not only bad singing but also boring. We head down to the Irish pub and watch curling on TV as Tatevik slowly gets sleepy. She takes a power nap while I finish my beer and her shandy, while listening to the troubadour sing old Elvis classics. Tatevik comes down refreshed and we waste time, playing slot machines and air hockey, until finally the midnight show comes…imagine the worst opera-style singing and cheesy wardrobe, and then mix in some dance numbers, and you basically have the midnight show…at least we had some good seats.

A shot at the bar helps me loosen up before breaking out my disgraceful moves on the top deck dancefloor, before finally calling it a night…

Helsinki

2007-05-15T08:45:00.001+01:00

Photos: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2032102&l=6fd2c&id=37002455

We catch an early bus down to Tallinn’s ferry terminal and board the ship, no one even bothers to check our tickets. I receive yet another stamp in a passport that’s quickly losing its empty pages.

The ship is run by Viking Lines, and its got all the kisch that you’d expect with a name like that. A stale orange/red carpet on the ship, some video-poker terminals where some fat guys from a biker gang are playing, and the smell of old cigarettes everywhere. We briefly see the top deck but its far too windy, we try sleeping in the reclining chairs and succeed for a while, but some fat asshole keeps pushing his knees into the seat forcing me to sit up. After 20 minutes of a wordless battle, where I push down and he pushes up, I give up.

Tatevik heads for the loo and I take a moment to examine a noticeboard that lists the names of a few of the crew with their picture, all with Finish names and appearance. The captain, the chief engineer, and then I spot him, the cruise manager: Petri Lehtinen. The picture is straight from loveboat, in his double-breasted white navy coat and mic in hand, he looks like the typical cruise-ship-crooner. They even have POSTCARDS with his face on them available at the info desk, I pocket a couple for mementos. We spot him walking about, I suppose he only sings on the night cruises, I really wanted to ask him to autograph my postcard, but I sensed I wouldn’t be able to keep from cracking up.

We waste time in the duty-free shop, and sit to have a tea, Tatevik’s cold is obviously gaining on her. I teach her how to play penny-hockey with estonian crowns. Finally the ship comes to Helsinki’s post and we disembark.

Helsinki has the unique quality of being a port city that actually still has major ports in its old harbour. Many port cities usually had their harbour right in the centre of the city, where ships could efficiently offload their cargo onto the city’s docks. Nowadays however the ships are much bigger and usually cannot dock where old wooden ships once were, and the advent of large trucks makes transporting the goods from large shipyards much easier, so most “ports” are enormous parking lots out in the middle of nowhere (aka see Dover). However Helsinki’s port area is still wide enough to allow the docking of the ferries, so you step off the ship and you are almost right in the middle of town. In fact on a warm day it would be a pleasant stroll into the city, but unfortunately our day is windy and chilly, but luckily still sunny. We want to drop our heavy bags in the luggage locker, so we start the walk across the harbour to our Stockholm bound ship. It’s a long walk along the water with the wind gusting, and Tatevik’s mood seems every bit affected by it. So to gain a moment of reprieve we pass through an old fish market, now converted to sell artisan breads, cheeses, and other delicacies. We finally reach our ferry terminal and pick up our boarding passses and stuff all our bags into a single locker.

The first few steps when you are free of luggage are always the best, so its with a better mood that we walk back out. The terminal is adjacent a hill and we walk up it to get a full view of the ship we will take this evening, it is much nicer than the one we came in on. The hills leads to the back of a park and we stroll down and walk towards the most visible landmark on the skyline, the Helsinki Cathedral. The Cathedral is located on Senate Square and it is built atop a massive staircase which elevates the Cathedral far above the surrounding buildings, even from the front door it is almost possible to see atop all the port buildings to the sea. From there we walk down a little directionless since we don’t have a map, but we eventually make our way to the train station where we drop into the tourist office to pick up some info. We don’t have many hours in Helsinki and Tatevik is cold and tired already, so we head into a coffee shop first to gain our bearings. The coffee shop is very modern and well lit from floor to ceiling windows, we sit and the sun and begin to warm up. The one sight we choose to see is the Temppeliaukio Church, built into bedrock in the centre of the city. We stroll from the Parliament building until we find the church, we walk along the bedrock roof and down the side into the entrance. The church itself is quite simple, a hole built into rock, with a large copper roof, and a ring of skylight windows letting light in from above. Tatevik sits in the pews resting, she’s obviously not well and while I would have liked to also see the Uspenski Orthodox Cathedral, it is in the opposite direction of our ship. So we walk in search of a public loo (which is probably the single most irritating thing to do in Europe), and hop the tram back to our ship.

Tallinn Day 2

2007-05-09T10:47:00.000+01:00

Photos http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2032108&l=8c1b9&id=37002455

The day starts with a visit the Estonian open air museum (Eesti Vabaõhumuuseum), a park which has collected buildings from Estonia’s past, mostly huts and lodges that once dotted the countryside. I’d forgotten my wallet but Tatevik lends me a hundred crowns, but I feel unwilling to part with any of it. So when we board the bus I don’t validate my bus ticket, so I can use it later on. Of course I freak out when inspectors board the bus right near the museum, I try to run for the validating machine but an inspector is there already, so I take a nervous seat and when one comes to me I offer a ticket I had used earlier in the morning, I had stamped it incorrectly but the time reads that it was used about 40 minutes ago, I’m hoping that the tickets are valid for about an hour. In any event the inspector hands it back to me to my great relief since a big fine is the last thing I really wanted.
The air is cold but its sunny, and we walk along the paths to all the old style cottages and huts which are locked up until summer. We do find a few buildings open, one of the many “summer kitchens” has its door open, something along the lines of a wooden tipi. We walk a long way to get a bus back into town and stop off at the monument of the Liberation Soldier, a statue of a Soviet soldier commemorating those that died fighting the Nazis. The soldier is currently a source of controversy because some Estonian politicians have called for its removal as a symbol that glorifies Russia’s occupation of Estonia. The debate opens old wounds for the country which has a sizeable Russian minority of nearly 30%, whose complaints of mistreatment are keenly heard by politicians back in Moscow. For now though the soldier still stands, with an emblem of the sickle and hammer behind is head, and fresh flowers at his feet.

We stroll through the centre some more and go to a small café to warm ourselves up. Tatevik and once mentioned she had a hot-chocolate with cheese there to which I made a face somewhere between disgust and disbelief. Of course I had to order it myself and it was damn tasty, served in a tall glass with a cinnamon stick. Tatevik opts for the Chilli hot chocolate, and I order a few chocolates that come served in a silver plate. The café has that stale decadence to it, ornate furniture, cushions, drapes, cushions. Everything in there was probably once in the house of some rich person, but now its worn and old and is all cobbled together in a strange mix.

We walk out to catch a bus towards an old burned out monastery or church, not far from where we saw the Tsar’s Tallin home. Unforunately it is gated for the winter, and we can only see it from the outside, the building is a stone shell windowless and roofless, a ruin, but still quite striking. Tatevik tells me that the church was burned as part of a love story. We walk to the river where old men have their fishing lines into the sea, and we walk under the bridge to reach the opposite side of the road to catch your bus back. Its still windy and cold so we step into a shop for a moment, and I buy an Estonian drinking snack, a plastic tub of hard rye bread soaked in an oil, similar to eating crutons, they apparently go well with beer, but smell a lot.

Back at home Tatevik’s symptoms start to worsen and we take her temperature and discover a low fever, the cold air had apparently take its toll. While we did have plans for going out at night we do have an early ferry to catch in the morning, and rather than exacerbate her immune system we opt to stay in for an early rise.

Tallinn Day 1

2007-04-26T09:08:00.000+01:00

Photos http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2032108&l=8c1b9&id=37002455

We breakfast at Tatevik’s flat not far from the sea, and walk to the nearby bus stop with an icy wind blowing into our jackets. There’s a lot to do and we start off the day by going to the cinema so I can finally see 300 (SPAAARTAAA!!). After that we walk into the old town, the medieval centre of Tallinn. We walk along a modern street until we reach the old city gate, a massive arch that’s still connected to high city walls enclosing to old town centre. Not many European cities retain any parts of their old city walls, I’ve seen a small piece of one at the Barbican centre in London, a gate in Cologne, and one in Munich, but by far Tallinn’s seems to be the best kept. Past the gate we enter into the narrow cobbled streets, where obviously the tourist dollars are what the local shops are aiming for. We pass a restaurant that offers a traditional Estonian meal, with a menu written on old style parchment in a leather bound book chained to the wall. A giant cauldron sits out front as well, its kinda kitschy and looks quite over priced so we move on. We take the narrow street up the hill that leads to the old rich quarter of the city (Toompea), where the Parliament is now and the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. The Cathedral is a beautiful orthodox church with spires reminiscent of the Russian style, tops that kinda swirl like soft serve ice cream, or an onion. There’s no photos allowed on the inside, which does force one to stop looking for the best shots and just appreciate the place. We stroll the outside and Tatevik notices that we keep running into the same tourist couple, at a lookout they ask us to take their picture and we ask for the same. We then head to a student restaurant that Tatevik knows where the specialty is an Estonian pancake with various fillings. We order and take a seat, it takes a long time to arrive and so we dig in eagerly, taking half of each other’s to see how’s is best, mine (chicken) easily beats out Tatevik’s (ham), I wish it down with a tall beer called A le Coq (hee hee).

We walk out of the city centre past another gate where the “fat Margaret” tower stands, and head to see the Soviet-era opera house, a giant concrete square now riddled with graffiti. We walk up its long stairs to see the cold grey sea but the fast winds force us back down fairly quickly. We take the bus and head out to see Peter the Great’s Tallinn house, a large estate near to a park. We then head up to see the Tallinn museum of modern art but they are just closing as we approach so we order some coffees in the café to warm ourselves up. Behind our table is the posh sound of an English art director, discussing organization plans with colleagues for some Russian expose, he sounds like a pompous ass inquiring which are the embassies with a cultural attaché. Outside we watch a dog behind a fence looking incredibly bored, when we walk out I approach the fence to say hi to the dog, he turns around and starts growling and barking…well he looked friendly.

We walk a long path against the wind to the sea where a monument stands for a shipwreck, it’s a beautiful sunset but its far too chilly to appreciate it, so we hurry off to catch a bus back to Tatevik’s flat. After some tea and dinner we head out to shoot some pool and then go to by far the most interesting theme-bar I’ve ever been to. Its called Scotland Yard and as you enter you see the walls are covered with old black and white photos of bobbies and criminals, behind glass cases are old rifles, pistols, handcuffs and leg irons. The bar is covered in dark wood and lit by banker’s lamps under green shades, a large book case sits and the back and the leather armchairs look mighty comfortable. A tobacconist is at the side selling cigars, and the waitresses walk around in full police uniform including holstered pistol and cuffs. The special touch though is found at the lou, where the toilet seat has a full wooden electric chair built on top, complete with arm straps…

Off to Tallinn

2007-04-04T21:40:00.000+01:00

Photos: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2030801&l=26959&id=37002455

I get to the bus station near the central market early, I probably could have hung around that Soviet bunker longer but saw little point since they were still only shooting pistols. I had decided that it was best to visit the Soviet bunker, but to opt out of the actualy shooting since the cost was a little steep and it didn't fit into my schedule. So I followed the group of 20 or so from the hostel to the bunker. The group is almost entirely Irish and Brits, probably straight from the ryanair and easyjet flights. The entrance to the bunker is a small little door in a concrete shelter not much bigger than an outhouse. We step past the iron door and see the dark cold staircase leading into the ground, its easily 8 degrees colder in here than it was outside. We walk down the dimly lit stairs and enter past 2 heavy vault doors and into main counter area. Up on the walls are countless rifles and posters of rifles (usually being held by some babe in a bikini), along with camo hats, holsters, knives, fireworks, and all sorts of stuff you could probably never take on a flight. The hostel kids read the safety policy, but the receive no training or instruction at all. We walk into the long corridor of the firing range where 10 targets have been setup, they are called up one at a time to shoot some pistol, a glock I think. They run out of earmuff covers but I don't worry about it, I'm pretty far back. I hear the first shot and the crack of the pistol echoes in the concrete hall causing a distinct pain on my eardrums, luckily some extra covers come up after the first shooter. After watching the first 10 blast their paper targets I head off to catch my bus.

Sitting in my bay is the crappiest looking bus ever and my gut sinks as I think I'm going to get stuck on a crowded junker that will break down halfway. Luckily now it pulls away and a sleek new eurolines bus comes in and I hope aboard marking a couple seats for myself. The ride is long, nearly 5 hours. However arriving late at the Tallinn terminal Tatevik is waiting for me sporting a brand new hairdo and a family friend is offering a ride in his BMW. I glance a few views of the city from the car windows but are soon at Tatevik's flat where I promptly crash for the night.

Riga Day 2

2007-04-02T08:40:00.000+01:00

Photos http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2030801&l=26959&id=37002455

Last night the Swedish bartender, a guy named Casper fully decked out in pirate costume, was organizing a pub crawl starting at midnight, I tried to amuse myself until then but decided I was too tired and too cheap to bother. The hostel is like any fun hostel though, and not really conducive to sleep, all night people come in and out, flick on and off the lights, play guitar and sing old songs, its great fun if your loaded but less so if you just wanna catch some shut-eye, so I plugged in my earphones and tried to doze off, unfortunately people in my room like it a little brisk and kept the window propped open, keeping the room temperature only a few precious degrees above zero.

I've given a lot of thought to today's plan, and despite thinking that it would be really cool, I'm opting out of going to the shooting range in the soviet bunker. The biggest single factor is the expense, not so much because 30-40 lats is more than I could afford, but using the notion of "opportunity cost", there are better ways to use it than 20-30 min of shooting up paper targets. Also Tatevik has arranged for me to get a ride from the Tallinn bus terminal with her mum, and I don't want to inconvenience her.

So that means that today's big event will be to find the Lido recreation centre, its kinda like Latvia-Land opened by a brewery company, its a giant log cabin, apparently very giant using hundreds of large fir trees, and houses bistros, bars, rides, etc etc. I don't see myself doing anything other than eating there, but its something to see, I may also do a quick visit to the occupation museum just to see cool statues and such. Then its off to catch my 5pm bus bound for Tallinn!

In Riga!!

2007-04-01T14:53:00.000+01:00

Photos http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2030801&l=26959&id=37002455

The captain comes onto the speaker

"Alright ladies and gentlemen we have started our descent, we will be arriving in Tallinn in 15 minutes"

....

"April fools"

Great, a comedian pilot...it could be worse, I remember flying home from Vancouver on Westjet when they were marketing themselves as the "fun airline", pilots actually would routinely deliver the worst one-liners you could imagine.

I go to the currency exchange and get just under 20 lats for my 30 euros, its painful to know that they use a currency comparable to pounds, but I'm relieved that at least the prices don't match the UK, my bus ticket into town costs 30 lat cents. The hostel is right on the Daugauva river, and its a sunny clear day. There is NO sign to the hostel on the front of a building, but I eventually find a small buzzer with a Koala next to it saying "Frank's", I buzz and am told to go around the back, I have to be buzzed in past two more locked doors before finally getting up.

Frank's has the highest rated hostel in Riga and they go the extra mile to keep that ranking, when I get in they offer me a free beer at the bar and a guy called James gives me a map and gives me a quick run down on the town. They're organizing a pubcrawl starting at midnight tonight, but consider my 6 am start today I'm not sure if I'm up for it.

My big dilemma today is whether or not I will spend the 30 lats (or 30 pounds) to go shoot AK-47's at a Soviet bunker, that's a lot of money, about 50 euros, plus I would have to buy a later bus ticket so tack on another 10 for that, for the cheap thrill of being in a dilapidated concrete structure to shoot guns at paper targets. Still its got great bar story telling potential, so I'm a little torn, I guess I'll see....

I spent the afternoon walking the city centre and have covered most of the main sights, I step into St. Peters Church where a choir is practicing, I pay the 2 Lats to ride the elevator to get the view of the city, the photos will hopefully look good, but 2 lats for a lift ride seems a little sharp. I then walk to find the bus station in case I want to change my ticket tomorrow but get lost. I stumble by luck into the Central market(which is supposedly Soviet era but doesn't look much different than any market I've ever seen), and then by even greater luck use the force to take a right turn at the exact moment to lead me to the bus station! I then circle around aimlessly in the old town and past the freedom monument where 2 sentries stand at attention, and past a park with some medieval structures whose names and history I don't know. On my way back I pass the Dome cathedral and take a step inside, they also charge an entrance of 1.5 lats unless you are there to pray. I feel that lying in a "house of God" can't really bring good Karma, and the church doesn't strike me as anything special so I head back.

The hostel looks right on the water offering some incredible views, I buy a beer and sit myself down at a free internet station where I started to type all this....

Baltic Adventure!!!

2007-03-30T10:31:00.000+01:00

The plan:

April 01, 2007
Depart Brussels: 9.10 AM
Arrive Riga: 12.35

Check-in: Franks Backpackers Hostel

Things to do:

AK - 47 Shooting In a Genuine Soviet Bunker
Riga Castle
Old Town
Dome Cathedral

April 02, 2007
Depart Riga: 17:00
Arrive Tallinn: 21:50

Check-in: chez Tatevik ;)
Things to do: Tatevik's surprise guided tour!

April 05, 2007
Depart Tallinn: 9.30
Arrive Helsinki: 11.30
Depart Helsinki: 19:00

Check-in: Night ferry!

Things to do: See city centre, Uspenski Cathedral, Suomenlinna Fortress

April 06, 2007
Arrive Stockholm: 9.30 AM

Check-in: 2 nights in a "cell" at the converted Langholmens Vandrarhem prison!!, last night at the Sheraton

Things to do: Well I actually still have to figure some of that out, but April 8 is my birthday!!

Depart April 09 back to Brussels

A “spring” party?

2007-03-22T16:33:00.000+01:00

One neat thing about working at NATO is that it is the home to dozens of diplomatic missions, almost all of which have an Ambassador which is the highest rank in diplomacy. These missions are like mini-embassies inside of NATO, the office space belongs to that country and if you step inside you are greeted with the usual national adornments of flags, crests, posters, portraits of leaders, etc. The Americans invested the most in their mission having marble slabs installed in the floors and walls, with portraits of George Bush proudly hanging on the wall next to the Stars and Stripes. The Canadian mission basically took the office space as-is but added some posters, and furniture... A few of the missions even have national post-offices, for example there’s a British Post Office not far from me where you can buy Cadbury chocolate, rowntree fruit gums, and see a very large portrait of the Queen. The advantage to these military post offices is that you can send and receive mail from that country and pay domestic prices (so if any Canadian friends are interested in sending me some Kraft dinner, peanut butter, and jolly ranchers, the address is:

Christopher Yung
NATO Staff Brussels
PO BOX 5048 STN FORCES
BELLEVILLE, ONTARIO
CANADA K8N 5W6

The best of all though, are the parties. A diplomat is there to represent his country, and what better way to show off your country than to invite people to try some of your national food, wine, beer, and music. At NATO there are 26 member states, and 22 more partner countries with missions, which means that in theory you could have a party by each country each week for 48/52 weeks in a year. In practice though most parties are joint affairs and not all the missions throw them (I’m still waiting for the party by Kazakhstan). Before Christmas was the real exciting time when many missions ran holiday parties, in particular I remember the Americans throwing a Hawaiian Christmas Party, complete with an open bar (I’m not a fan of American beer, but the whiskey was good ;) and delicacies that I haven’t had in ages like triscuits and corndogs.

Advertising for the parties is usually pretty subtle, so it came as a total shock when yesterday I found out that the Polish, Czech, and Hungarian missions were throwing a party to celebrate the spring equinox. The idea seemed amusing considering the hail storm only a few hours earlier, but I hurried down to see the huge crowd. I quickly grab a plate and load up on Polish Sausage, Cabbage rolls, and my favourite Czech dish of roast pork and dumplings. To wash it down I had Żywiec beer and a Polish drink consisting of Zubrowka Vodka and apple juice. All of that made me a little light headed and I was sure that heading to the NATO bowling alley with the interns wasn’t a great idea, but I ended up beating my own record!

So many beers so little time

2007-03-14T15:06:00.000+01:00

One charming quality about Belgian beer culture is that a beer must always be poured in the right glass. Instead of generic pint glasses, every brewery also produces glasses of distinct shape with the brewery’s trademark on it. For example Hoegaarden glasses are very wide and have 6 flat sides, Leffe is served in something resembling a wine glass, my favourite Grimbergen comes in a stubby short goblet.

The tradition becomes difficult to maintain when Anglo-Saxons are involved. Thanks to the European Parliament, and Irish Pubs, Brussels now has establishments that offer “Happy Hour”, something not typically Belgian. These places are distinctive because they usually have a bar name in English, have only English speakers inside, have shorter beer menus, and drink deals. After work on Fridays you can often find a sea of interns in front of the Pullman where the 2-for-1 deal makes a massive ½ litre of Hoegaarden cost only 3 euros. At my “local”, the happy hour goes until 10pm on weekdays, midnight on weekends, and beer ranges from 1 to 2 euros.

This all makes a place like the Delirium Café, all the more mind boggling. As the Guinness World Record holder for most varieties of beer available, they promise to stock at least 2004 beers, with as many as 2500 available on a given night. The beer menu is a book kept under the bar that could easily take an hour to flip through. So it seemed like the best place to end Lauren’s night-tour of Brussels.

I met Lauren at the Eurostar station just after work and we vainly tried to find a cash machine. In a train station that has almost everything it strikes me as typically Belgian to not have easy access to an ATM. We haul straight to my place to drop off bags and get Mads and head off to a Flemish restaurant for some grub. The menu is written on a tall chalkboard at the end of the bar and we grab a hot meal while having a few drinks. Lauren then gets the quick tour of the major “sites”, the bourse, the grand place, and finally the manneken pis. Lauren didn’t quite buy that a small statue of a boy peeing in a fountain can be a tourist attraction, but accepts that we aren’t “taking the piss” when other tourists start to photo it, and we show her a souvenir shop with hundreds of little naked manneken pis boys on the shelves.

Delirium isn’t the nicest bar in the world, in actuality its sort of a tourist trap. But it does have over 2000 beers available, most with their own glasses. Lauren and I get a Kwak which comes in a narrow neck glass without a flat bottom. We follow that up with a round of Bush Ambree, which holds the record as Belgium's strongest beer at 12%. Considering it was a Monday, this might have taken things too far, but all in all it was one to remember.

Martti Ahtisaari's 2nd Visit

2007-02-22T10:29:00.000+01:00

Heading to this meeting sorta feels like trying to move down to better seats in a baseball game, or a the theatre. As you see the empty seats ahead of you, you wonder “Is anyone is really going to sit there, maybe they’ll be empty, it would be a shame for them to go to waste”. I did this quite often while watching shows in London, sometimes an entire row would be held for people who never showed up, and no one benefits from them staying empty. However in those circumstances at least you have “a seat” to go back to, unlike today where I’m basically hoping for something to be available.

I head into the room early, it’s the biggest one here. The meeting includes not only NATO countries, but all the KFOR contributors, so there are a dozen extra delegations with their ambassadors and staff. My division has 2 seats assigned for it, behind the Chairman in the 2nd row, with little tags that say PASP on them. It’s a popular meeting and so its guaranteed that at least 2 of my colleagues will show up. There are dozens of other divisions at NATO, each with their own acronym name. Even “Operations” which is one word and doesn’t require an acronym, is OPS. I’m betting on some of them not being interested in attending.

The Sec-Gen and President Ahtisaari finally arrive with their entourage and people assume their seats, to my surprise every single one is full, but in the corner there is a chair at a desk with a few computers and other equipment. Its probably for a note-taker or someone who is in charge of running a power-point presentation. It doesn’t matter, its empty, so I take a seat.

Ahtisaari is the special envoy from the UN to develop a settlement agreement for Kosovo, which has been an international protectorate since 1999. As the former President of Finland he also has a distinguished diplomatic history of resolving the dispute between Indonesia and Aceh rebels, and brokering peace in the former Yugoslavia. He’s also been tipped numerous times as a potential recipient for the Nobel Peace Prize. On top of this, he’s got an odd, dry, Nordic sense of humour. Ahtisaari’s last briefing was one of the very first meetings I attended when I came to NATO, and his presence led me to think that all meetings here would be deeply engaging. Unfortunately it hasn’t always been the case.

The meeting itself isn’t very groundbreaking, all the NATO Allies are more-or-less unified in their position, with only a few stragglers talking about delays. Earlier in the week the new Serbian ambassador, whose country only recently joined the EAPC (Euro-Atlantic Partnership Council), provided a much more lively discussion on the issue. The issue is sensitive, but if handled well another war is certainly easily avoidable. I am lucky to be dealing with the Balkans at such an interesting time, but from the corner of the room I feel on the periphery of the issue, both figuratively and literally.

"Sympathetic Detonation"

2007-02-15T12:04:00.000+01:00

Euphemisms are wonderful things. They show how powerfully different words can represent the same thing yet create different impressions. Among the organizations that are creating a steady flow of new euphemisms, the military creates the most amusing examples. 100 years ago many governments had a war ministry and a war minister. Nowadays they have defence ministries and defence ministers. In a famous example of doublespeak Orwell's 1984 predicts a future where we have peace ministries and peace ministers.

"Pacification" for the eradication of enemies, "sweep and clear" for search and destroy, and "collateral damage" for blowing the hell out of things, are all well established.

Today I learned "sypmathetic detonation" The briefing was about Afghanistan and prospects of beginning PfP trust fund projects to the region. The PfP (partnership for peace) trust fund is an international fund that NATO countries pay into, mostly for disarmament projects, like destroying the huge stockpiles of cold-war weapons in the former Soviet Union. The Soviet experience in Afghanistan certainly left a legacy that lives to this day, among that is literally thousands of tons of all sorts of ammunition. In a strange twist though, the war in Afghanistan requires NATO countries to bring thousands of more tons of ammo into the country every day...
A lof of ammo in Afghanistan isn't guarded, in fact a lot of it isn't even housed. It sits outside just waiting to be stolen or rendered useless by extreme heat. Some projects in the country are trying to establish groundbreaking security measures like "lights to see people" and "fences that cover the entire perimeter", and then the extras like motion sensors, security cameras, better locks, etc. For now a lot of ammo is housed in poorly constructed Soviet bunkers, which were built from poured concrete but lack steel reinforcement, and some of them are collapsing. Furthermore, the bunkers are not designed with safety measures against "sympathetic detonation".

Ever look closely at a champagne bottle? Well if you do, you might notice that the bottom of the champagne bottle has thinner glass than the rest of the bottle. Champagne's carbonation process puts a lot pressure on the bottle, and during fermentation its not unusual for a cork to blow out, or for a bottle to explode. In the early days, if a champagne bottle exploded the force might make its neighbour bottles explode, causing a chain recation costing an entire cellar of champagne. A champagne bottle is designed to withstand 5 atmospheres of pressure, except the bottom which is weaker. If the bottle does explode, the pressure is naturally directed to the weakest point of the bottle and bottom blows out sending the champagned harmlessly into the middle of the hall.

These Soviet Bunkers, are so tightly packed and lacking in design features, that if some ammunition went off, there would be a serious risk of "sympathetic detonation". The expression makes one imagine about shells seeing one of their fellow shells blowing up, and then deciding to blow up in "sympathy". Or you could just imagine thousands of tons of ammo blowing up all at once to make a fucking goddamn big explosion.

"Sir what kind of consequence could there be from such an event?"
"At worst? The National Afghan Army could find itself short of ammunition during a critical offensive, and the explosion could destroy as much as 10% of the capital"

I would describe that as a very un-sympathetic explosion.

"Time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life"

2007-02-06T15:08:00.000+01:00

Panic strikes as I realize that there is no way I should be able to wake myself up. Its impossible, I only gave myself 2 hours to sleep, there’s no way I’ve slept less than that on my own volition. I tap a key on my laptop to see what time it is, only to discover that its battery is dead. Fuck! The laptop is dead, hence the alarm I set on the laptop never went off. I run to the kitchen to find the time on the oven, its noon. Double fuck!! Well lets see, flight is at 4.30, wanna arrive about 90 min beforehand so that’s 3pm, takes about an hour on the Piccadilly line so get there at 2pm, need to get to Earls Court by taking 2 tube lines or else risk getting lost on the bus, so lets say I gotta be showered, packed, and cleaned up this place in about 90 min….triple fuck…

Normally I don’t use my laptop as an alarm clock, I use my phone. Unfortunately it died about 2 hours after I landed at Heathrow. Luckily it still had enough juice to tell Tatevik that the Starbucks where we agreed to meet is closed, and that she can find me at a pub just down the road. She shows up late but with a healthy buzz and helps me take my bags to my cousin’s flat where we drop em off. Tatevik’s friends are waiting for us at a bar in Leicester Square which instantly sets off alarm bells in my head. Nine times in ten, any place at Leicester Square is an overpriced tourist trap with a bad crowd and bad music. Trips to Zoo bar convinced me of least that much. Even so friends are friends and I don’t wanna be in between her and them, so I quickly shed the suit I’ve been in all day and we head down. The place is predictably godawful, the first warning is the bouncer who walks us straight to the door and tells the price to the girl at the desk (a tactic taken straight from zoo bar, speeds up the momentum so people who are just going to check it out feel pressured to decide yes/no and end up going in). The ceiling is low and the lighting is crap. The venue is small and lacks a proper sound system, some hi powered portable speakers are set up in corners and are cranked way too loud. The place is dense and the floors are so covered with spilled drinks they’ve become sticky. I wish I could remember the name of the place so that I could warn others, but its been forgotten. Frost, or frozen, or ice, or blizzard, or chilled, or something like that.

It’s a lazy weekend in the purest sense, most of the day spent sipping coffee, eating, and sleeping. Most of the night spent drinking and dancing (well I dunno if anything at the Islington Academy qualifies as dancing). The lack of a GSM was a constant annoyance, especially since I had hoped to catch-up with old London friends (sorry!). Even so I got to enjoy every hour I had with Tatevik before her flight back to Tallinn.

Tatevik’s flight was due to leave at 6.50 am on Sunday, from Stansted. It was an ungodly time, since Stansted is 75-90 minutes away. Stansted airport is also so spread out that even getting to your gate can take another 30 min. London airports seem always on high alert, and terror suspects were arrested only on Thursday. So Tatevik aims for being at the airport 2 hours before checkin. Around 4.50am. Assuming it takes all 90 minutes, that means leaving Victoria at 3.20 am. Assuming it takes about 30 min to get to Victoria on a night bus, leave the house at 2.50 am. Its such an early hour there isn’t any point to sleeping and so we stay up. Everything goes as planned until at Victoria station we discover that the terravision buses have decided to change their pickup point. The first two buses we could have made leave from the other side of the terminal, and the 3rd is sold out, and the 4th apparently as well. Thinking we are basically screwed I sprint to the National Express terminal and find a Stansted bus leaving in 3 min, I sprint back and haul up Tatevik’s heavy duffle and sprint back. I’m breathing like a walrus when we finally make it to the bus, and promptly drop on Tatevik’s knee and fall asleep, leaving a little drool spot on her jeans….

I arrive back at the flat at 8am and decide to give myself a 2 hour nap which should have left me enough time to have a coffee and muffin, leisurely clean and pack. Of course things didn’t quite turn out that way…

Tatevik leaves Brussels

2007-01-31T10:41:00.001+01:00

And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,-you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.

-Oscar Wilde

Ministerial today!

2007-01-26T15:44:00.000+01:00

Two weeks agao Condoleeza Rice decided that there ought to be a meeting among NATO's foreign ministers to discuss Afghanistan and Kosovo. The Secretary of State of the United States is a voice to be heard in IR, and so at NATO we went into full gear to make the preparations. Art was installed, the security arrangements made, the media invited. It was all very impressive albeit a bit of a pain in the ass.

Kosovo was discussed but I wasn't there, I couldn't get a badge to attend. From what I've read though nothing special has come out, just the continued support for Ahtisaari and the UN process, its really in the realm of the Security Council now, only the Russians can bog things up.

Tatevik received her prize for a lunch for 2 at the NATO staff centre and we use today to claim it. Its really not a special place, I don't know why it intimidates me. We take full advantage of the free lunch to run up the tab. I start with terrine de pate, Tatevik takes the cheese croquette. We both have the special du jour, pigeon in trappiste sauce....yea now I've had pigeon in both oriental and western cuisine, its not something I think I'll ever need to try again, we conclude with chocolate mousse and coffee. Oh and a bottle of nice wine to boot probably brings the tab to around 80 euros for NATO to cover, which is sweet.

Bruges (Brugge)

2007-01-25T17:21:00.000+01:00

Photos: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2023859&l=9cc26&id=37002455

As the train pulls out Brussels we pass the green farmer’s fields and are relieved to see a blue sky and sun. Belgium’s weather can make or break your day, sunny weather can make it perfect while the worst rain can make any day outside seem like torture. Unfortunately as we approach Bruges it starts to get noticeably greyer. Bruges (or Brugge in native Flemish) used to be a port town and a commercial centre for the lowlands during medieval ages. However silting resulted in the town losing access to the sea. The city once received merchant fleets from Italy’s Genoa, but as it was cut off it was slowly abandoned. The atmosphere of the city led to it being called “Bruges-la-Morte” (Bruge the dead). Luckily however this resulted in a form of stunted development where the city retained a great deal of its medieval charm and has since been re-founded as a sort of tourist attraction. The popularity of the city has created an industry that maybe makes the city seem a tad fake (aka the abundance of horse carriages) but its still one of the prettiest cities I’ve seen. The title “Venice of the North” might be a bit much, but the canals and streets certainly make it much nicer than Amsterdam, which is actually a little rotted.

Its freezing, and my coat is at the dry cleaners so I’ve got a spring jacket one. It’s a typical Sunday in Belgium which means almost everything is closed. Lucky for us there are two shops open selling some clothes still under their post-holiday sales. We’re shopping in the stores when it starts to pour rain. I buy a scarfe and a jumper, Tatevik gets a jumper too. When we go outside the rain has stopped and there’s a blue sky overhead. But as we look around we notice the blue is actually a patch among dark black clouds. The weather decides to be schizophrenic, rain, sun, rain and sun, hail, wind, sun, etc etc.

We’re headed to Onze Lieve Vrouwekerk (Church of Our Lady) to see the Madonna and Child by Michaelangelo, one of his few works to leave Italy in his own lifetime. I had seen the church in October with Ben before work at NATO started. It is placed at an altar and the barrier is so distant that you cannot really see the details of the work. Even so it doesn’t quite compare to my favourite piece by him, the Pietà, in St. Peter’s. Unfortunately about a block before we get there the icy rain starts again and we take refuge in a chocolate shop. I know this is a tourist den selling overpriced Belgian chocolate to all the tourists, but it smells so good Tatevik and I get a bar of coated Marzipan and head off.

Bruges is a wonderful wandering city, designed for pedestrians the entire town can be walked (but the train station is unfortunately about 2km from the centre). Rickard had recommended we go to a pub called De Garre, where they brew Belgium’s “2nd strongest beer”. The beer isn’t sold outside the pub, though they do bottle it for take-away. We follow Rickard’s map and the alley we have to walk down is miniscule, not even a full arms length. And the entrance to the bar is so understated we walk right by it, assuming it to be the exit of another building. Unfortunately their door is closed, with a sign saying something in Dutch, but with the date Feb 2 on it, which I assume means they are closed until then. However just a bit further down there is another cosy bar where we take a seat and warm ourselves. I order a Kwak, which is a beer served in a very distinctive glass, a ball at the bottom with a narrow neck and a wide mouth. Because the glass cannot be rested on a table, it is served in a wooden cup holder. The shape of the glass means that as you drink the beer the vacuum created in the bottom ball sucks the head back, meaning you can drink the beer even with 2 inches of foam on top. On Wikipedia I read the theory that the glass was designed for horse carriage drivers…makes sense…

On our way down the street I see an artist painting the Belfort and the canal. I ask him in French if I can take his photo, he looks at me confused so I ask in English. He says of course, but asks me if I can take a photo for him. Its dusk and the sunset is lighting up the Belfort with dark clouds behind it. He says he’s never seen it like that and asks if I can photo it for him and email it to him. Its raining while sunny, and I write down his email on a wet piece of paper. Later I email him but the email bounces back, so I google his name to get the correct email address. I find a picture of him from years and years ago, maybe 15, painting almost the same picture…..

Its getting dark so I call Rickard to recommend a restaurant. He recommends the Grand Alley Café and the Hobbit but the first is closed and we can’t find the second. Frigid we settle for pizza in the main square and hop the bus back to the station. Its dark and freezing, but so peaceful in what is 9 months of the year, a packed square.

I don't think he's laughing -with- me

2007-01-25T11:57:00.000+01:00

Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps, for he is the only animal that is struck with the difference between what things are and what they ought to be.

William Hazlitt (1778 - 1830)

Serbian elections were on Sunday (01/21/07) and in PASP our predictions seem to be about right. The radical party (SRS) won the biggest share of the vote, however the majority of Serbs voted in favour of EU/Western leaning parties who are fractured. The goverment will likely be an uneasy coalition under the last PM, who will probably stay PM because he could always make a deal with radicals.

Its the monday after the election and our director Jarek is passing through the hallway. He's looking for a Balkans expert to take to his meeting with the Assistant-Secretary General (ASG in NATO lingo). Trouble is that they are away leaving only me to watch over the region. Jarek asks "Chris do you know anything, anything at all about the Balkans?", well that is my field I guess. So we rush down the hallway to the ASG's office. I grab a sheet of paper and a pencil from a random lady I don't know so I can take notes. We get into the office and Jarek tells our ASG Martin "I brought Chris along, he's handling the Balkans while Gabriele and Steffen are away". Martin is a large German fellow who looks at me and smiles a broad smile and breaks into a hearty laugh.

"That's amusing"

I'm young, but I look even younger. At a party thrown by our ASG the 16 year old daughter of a colleague guessed I was about 18. God 18, high school, its ancient history now. So I know my face conveys zero credibility, if credibility is measured by stubble and crow's feet. There is an idea, a construct, an image of what an intelligent and credible person looks like, someone you would trust your important affairs with, who's opinions matter to you and is valuable. For example see this graph giving the average height of US Presidents

Notice the upward trend? The most noticeable is senior military men. With few exceptions they all "look" and "talk" like the leaders from Hollywood. They are tall with a full head of slightly greying hair, they have deep voices and sharp features. Of course this doesn't affect his abilities at all. But when you have to trust the judgement of someone you don't even know, what else do you have to rely on?

Jarek takes a moment to apologize for Martin while we walk back, of course he certainly doesn't have to, and I guess neither does Martin (though from a purely management point of view my job satisfaction went to about 0 that day). I understand, it just sucks is all.

ATOMIUM

2007-01-15T09:29:00.000+01:00

Photos: http://lse.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2023110&l=63873&id=37002455

Built for the 1958 World's Fair, Atomium has been called the "Eiffel Tower of Brussels". The comparison is accurate to the extent that both were temporary structures that were only intended to last a few months, both of them became popular tourist attractions, and consequently both of them are now overpriced traps.

Its a sunny day which is the real novelty of Brussels, I've lived in some rainy places (Vancouver, London) but Brussels is by far the soggiest of all. Its 2pm and the shadows are already starting to get long so we head off to the old expo fair grounds. They recently cleaned Atomium up and the shiny metal balls sparkle in the sun, its nice to see it restored to its former "glory". Seeing it from the outside really should have sufficed, but its only 4 euros with a student card so we head in. There is only 1 lift for Atomium, when it was built it was the fastest lift in Europe, taking you up 100 meters in only a few seconds. Its still only 1 lift though, and the queue takes about 30 minutes. The lift has a glass ceiling though which is a novel first.

After spending so long in the line we walk around and take a quick look at the view before sitting down in their funky 1970's lounge. The stairs from the top ball are closed so we have to queue to take the lift back down. In the line we run into Andy and that Hungarian fellow (I'm crap with names) from NATO. The middle ball contains a gelato vendor, oooooh. We walk down to another sphere, it has a neat glow-in the dark display, but that's about the most exciting thing. The remaining spheres contain mostly old barbie dolls, old photos and movies. The rest is closed off because of maintenance work.

Yea, this photo captures how impressive the inside was....

Interns meet with Secretary-General

2007-01-11T16:23:00.000+01:00

My favourite lesson from 1st year psychology was the one about “cognitive dissonance”, which means the incompatibility between 2 cognitions. Basically the tensions that exist between 2 opposing thoughts. In psychology the term can also refer to the driving force of the mind to change or harmonize our ideas to eliminate cognitive dissonance. An experiment to demonstrate this involved 2 neighbourhoods, one was left alone while the other had someone go door to door asking people to sign a very vague petition supporting the environment. People seldom dispute the environment as a good thing worth supporting and the personal cost of signing a petition is about nil so it was very successful. Two weeks later campaigners went to both neighbourhoods asking if they could install huge ugly signs on their lawns for an environmental campaign. In the untouched neighbourhood most people refused, as the benefit to the environment from ugly lawn signs is small but the personal cost of having to see them every time you come home is great. In the 2nd neighbourhood the campaigner would say “Hello, we got your name from a list of supporters of the environment who signed a petition and were wondering if you would...” These homeowners suddenly experienced cognitive dissonance, they might actually have been apathetic about the environment but such a self-image was at tension with the fact that they had signed the petition. Now when confronted by someone who externally identified them as “environmentalists” the rest of their thoughts were forced to harmonize with that image. Maybe the sign isn’t that ugly, maybe it really will help the cause, maybe its my duty to have an ugly lawn sign, etc. The result is that when compared to the control group, there was a very significant increase in the number of people willing to install the signs.

I’m a paid intern, which is almost a contradiction in terms and certainly an exception to the rule. I’ve been placed at NATO by the Canadian Ministry of Foreign Affairs who give me a fairly generous stipend, under a now axed programme that the government has deemed “redundant”. Most of the NATO interns are paid zip, zero, natta. However few interns would consider their time to be worth nothing, and so cognitive dissonance leads them to focus on the non-monetary rewards of their work (experience, contacts, etc). Meeting the Secretary-General of NATO is one of those rewards, and so I think the interns (myself included) might have expected a little more in exchange of their free labour.

In fairness there are a lot of goddamn interns here. With 26 member countries it would only take 2 from each to make 52. In practice though some countries have lots (US, Canada, Germany) others have none (Latvia, Turkey got 1 recently). When the SG finally shows up for his photo the photographer has to keep taking back steps to fit all the interns into the frame. Snap snap snap, he takes the new shots for the NATO newsletter. We head inside a conference room, one of the older ones with wood panels that reminds you that the HQ was built in the 1970’s. We get a brief and unexciting Q&A with the SG and that’s it. Most of us would not have wanted too much more, a handshake, a prepared speech, maybe a cup of coffee…well as momentous as it all was I’m sure the interns are now much more eager to receive their first pay cheques, a stipend of 600 euros a month in exchange of their service to international peace and security.

Christmas at Mont-Tremblant

2007-01-09T15:04:00.000+01:00

We’re at the bottom of Versant Nord and I’ve got all my gear, well almost. Actually I’ve got no tuque, boots, or wrist guards. The first is easily remedied, I try to do 1 run with nothing but the icy air starts to freeze my brain and I cave into an overpriced red Oakley hat from the ski-shop. The boots are sitting back in our rented condo, so for today I rent a nice pair of Burtons. But the wrist guards pose a problem. The ski shop doesn’t sell em. Of course I don’t need the wrist-guards to ski and will probably be just fine without them…but the last time I said that was in February 05 when I went to Whistler and veered off an icy run into a stream, smashing my wrist into hundreds of pieces. Now I’ve got a metal structure holding it all together, kinda like the steel frame of a building, all hidden below a few scars that have yet to go white. I haven’t been on a snowboard since then.

My brother has a pair of firefly gloves with wrist-guards built in. The built-in kind aren’t quite as sturdy, and move around as you shift your gloves, but its better than nothing. He lends them to me knowing that after 6 years of snowboarding he’s never needed them, but I still feel a sense of loathing that he may just may. I pull the strap around as tight as it can go.

The snow base is sparse and patchy, the snowmakers are on full blast trying to compensate for global warming. I’ve always had mixed feelings about Tremblant. Compared to Whistler its an icy miserable little hill, but then again it’s probably the best bet East of the rockies. On the chairlift up I hear that familiar sound of skis and boards grinding their steel edges into the ice trying to carve. It doesn't take much on ice like this for the waxy bottom of your board to fly from straight out from under you. It makes the hair on my arms stand up.

Statistically most accidents happen at the end of the day. My buddy Paul once told me that the sign that you were done skiing was when you used the words “last run”. Rather than actually taking one more run, when he found himself saying “one more run” he knew that he ought to quit and get a beer. The reasons are quite simple, after skiing for 6 hours of icy weather your body begins to feel exhausted and remembers the ungodly early hour you had to wake up at. Maybe that hangover from the night before finally kicks in. Or in my case, the rotten sleep because of jet lag. Your legs feel rubbery and aren’t as responsive, and you lazily let yourself slide. The mind also slows, you don’t notice the grooves in the snow, the presence of people around you. You don’t react fast enough. Everyone else is like this too, meaning that the run is now an obstacle course filled with other tired skiers who are little more than projectiles. Finally, and this is particular to the time of year, it darkens even around 3. The shadows across the snow can play tricks on the mind and it suddenly becomes difficult to tell if you’ve got powder underneath or a sheet of ice. I’ve only had a few bad accidents, and almost all of them have happened on the “last run”.

We’re at the top of the mountain, its just after 3 and the lifts are starting to shut down. There is a big blue sky above us and the moon is a pale white. We can see over the brown mountain range of the Laurentians. It’s the last day and we all wish we could ski more. If we haul ass to the bottom we might catch the last chair up for a “last run”…but I instantly know why that’s a mistake. Instead we savour the run taking it slow and making big S’s in the empty lane. Last time we were here I was always the fastest one down, leaving everyone else in my tracks. Now I'm 2nd slowest, only slightly faster than Caitlin who crawls ahead, too chicken to risk the speed. Sarah and Tim have been leading the pack, but Tim finally still slips on the ice and takes his only dive of the trip, scooping up a bunch of ice down his bum. So the curse of the last run strikes again, but an icy bum now and then never hurt anybody.

Heathrow Hell

2007-01-09T11:15:00.000+01:00

When I was 6 years old I got on a plane for the first time in my life to go to Disney Land in Florida. About 4 months later my parents were divorced and my mum had moved to Montreal and I was taking the plane every few weeks. Even then I somehow knew I looked a little pathetic taking my 4 year old brother by the hand into the airport with a little suitcase in tow. Flying back in those days was at least a somewhat civil experience. Today modern flying is constituted by part cattle farm, part prison, part Kafka novel. This adventure starts at Brussels airport, probably the most inept airport I’ve ever been to. I was there only one week prior for a flight to London, and now that it’s Christmas its thrice as bad. Tatevik and I barely catch the airport bus, and only because it is stalled by the huge volume of people lining up for it to get to the airport. While in the queue we stand next to two Frenchmen who almost break into a fist fight while trying to get on. We get to the airport with almost 2 hours until the flight but quickly realize that its gonna be a bit of a crunch. The check in line alone snakes far down the terminal. I bought the ticket with Air Canada but they don’t fly to Brussels, so I have to take a connection to Brussels with their “partner”, BMI which is basically a cheapo charter which sells tickets for as little as 10 euros but with absolutely no frills.

We’re in the line for almost 30 minutes, and I’m anxious because I have last minute gifts to buy from the duty free. A lady comes to line and announces that the flight to London before and after mine have been cancelled, and that people can come with her to see about taking the train to London. I’m really thankful that mine’s still going because my connection to Toronto leaves at 1pm from Heathrow. I get up to the check-in lady, she’s just arrived and I’m her first customer of the day, she’s sweet in a way that I know can’t last with the unruly mob of angry travelers behind me. My flight is still going but due to fog its going to be delayed, in all likeliness the flight will arrive at noon, which gives me 1 hour to connect from Terminal 3 to terminal 1, its tight but I might make it. I shop around duty free when Tatevik calls me, I forgot to give her the key to my flat. I’m on my way to passport control to try and find her when I decide to check the departures board, my flight is listed now and its got a gate number, and the time reads to original departure time of 9.45, which gives me 30 minutes to get through security and to the gate. I rush to the passport control and give the key to a passport officer who hands it to Tatevik and haul ass down to security. The line is enormous so I pick the one that seems to move fastest, and I’m right. I move so fast I notice that there are xray machines to the left and right of me, but where’s the machine for my line? I look down the line to see it is the only one to trail far ahead, I check my watch, 15 minutes, this line could easily eat that. Out of sheer desperation I jump to the right line and ask the security guard if I can go through, and that my flight is leaving in 10 minutes. He ok’s me and I go through. I run down 20 gates and see a small crowd in front of mine, good its still boarding! I’m right by a duty free and run to grab an armful of Belgian chocolates and beer. The lady’s almost rung me through when she stars a conversation with someone, I feel like smashing the glass counter with the cheap watches underneath. She packs the beer in a special clear plastic bag glued at the top and I go to the gate.

I’m shocked to see a huge crowd just sitting around, no one is boarding, but people are also lined up. I get in the line and divine that the flight is still delayed, and these people are trying to find alternative routes to their destination. I’m furious, if the flight is delayed why not write that on the departures board, worse, why write the original time next to gate number!! The lady at the gate tells me the flight will probably leave between 11 and 12, so I haul off to get a coffee. I’m sitting at the cafeteria when I get a strange and sudden impulse to go to my gate, I have no idea why. I’m strolling up to it when I see that there is no one there anymore except one woman at the check-in desk. I run up to her, she’s boarded the plane, they’re getting an earlier departure slot!!! Why in God’s name then don’t they announce in on the speaker system!! I run to the plane and get into my seat and we wait, and wait and wait. The captain comes on:

“This is your captain speaking, as you know Heathrow has a dense freezing fog and is working on a time slot system and we’ve been given an earlier time slot. Unfortunately we have to depart in the next 5 minutes in order to make the slot. However a number of passengers for this flight are not aboard, and due to security regulations we now have to take their bags off the plane. This is being done now, and we will request an extension of our slot from Heathrow, and hope for the best”

The pilot, probably sensing the frustration of all the people behind him, has also omitted one other security policy. That passengers cannot disembark a flight once they have boarded, this is because there is the possibility of leaving “something” behind. So if we don’t get an extension on our slot, we’re waiting, and we’re waiting in this tiny airplane. Luckily we do get one and we taxi out, I’ll arrive at Heathrow around noon, its gonna be tight, but I might make it.

At Heathrow I run as fast as I can following the connections signs until I get to the security check. I’m going to the security line when some low-level Heathrow grunt tells me I can only have one bag, I look at my hands, I have my laptop bag and duty free. I tell him I bought the duty free in Brussels, he says I can only have 1 bag, I ask him what I should do, he tells me I can check the bag, I tell him my flight leaves in 45 minutes, he says I can only take 1 bag. So I step aside, I tear open my duty free bag and take 2 glass beer goblets that come in a kit and stuff em in my coat pocket and toss the coat over my arm. Tim might not get beer, but at least he gets something. I go back to him and drop the beer next to the rubbish bin. He says I can’t leave alcoholic drinks near the bin, I ask him what I should do with them, he says I should check them. Now I can feel the blood start to rush to my face. “I can’t check them I have a flight in 40 minutes!!” “You cannot leave them here!”, “So I can’t take them with me, I can’t check them, and I can’t throw them away, exactly what am I supposed to do with these!!”

At this moment one of his coworkers comes up, “What’s wrong here?”, I say “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these”, he replies “Why don’t you take them on the plane?”…..

At this point the two Heathrow men argue about what exactly is the policy about duty-free and carry-on when a supervisor comes, and she listens to them for all of 5 seconds before just passing me through. I’m relieved to still have my duty free but now I’ve torn open that special bag with the big lettered instructions, indicating that it is against the law to tamper with the bag. I’m not too worried, worst case scenario they’ll take it away, but they’re still xmas gifts so I roll the top of the bag over and over and grip it tightly getting the glue to kinda stick. I gently put it on the xray belt and it goes through to a woman on the other side, she says “Oh this is from Brussels airport, who’s is this” and holds the bag up, my rolls start to unfurl and any moment all that beer is gonna drop out. I quickstep up to her saying “mine mine!” and gently rest it on the ground.

Partly out of stress and exhaustion, and partly because I’m a bumblebrain, I believe I’m in Terminal 3 going to Terminal 1 and not vice versa. So I hurry off to the terminal 1 signs and see the departures board, my flight isn’t listed. Confused I run back to the connections desk and get into the line for Air Canada, I spend almost 10 minutes in the line and its in mid-conversation with a lady behind me that I realize my mistake. I run down the terminal 3 signs which leads to a bus stop where a bus has just left. Its 25 minutes to go, I’m convinced I’m not going to make it and call my Dad to say so. The bus comes and I spend the entire ride patting my pockets constantly rechecking for wallet, passport, flight tickets, I don’t trust my brain anymore.

I run up to the departures board and see my flight, in big red letters it says GATE CLOSING. I’ve got about 5 minutes to go and I’m at gate 52!! I’m running like a madman when I see one of the trolleys parked, I jump on and tell the guy, an old friendly British fellow, that my flight is leaving in 5 minutes, can he get me to my gate? “We’ll try!!” he says. He turns on his little light and beeping sound and he races his cart as fast as it will go, honking past people and rushing on, gate 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 and finally 52. He radios “I’ve got one more passenger coming, hold the plane!!” I thank him as fast as I can and run down seeing the dock drivers standing there, I yell out “I’m coming” and jump over a row of seats to the gate. A lady rips my ticket and I haul down the corridor and hop the plane, and walk as a sweaty heap to my seat. I slump in my chair too exhausted to watch “My Super Ex-Girlfriend”, which in the end is probably for the best.

Pride, pomp, and circumstance

2006-12-19T11:54:00.000+01:00

Graduation. Well not quite. It’s a “presentation” ceremony, the degrees are issued by the University of London, not the LSE, and rather than being handed a rolled scroll with a ribbon I’ll get my sheepskin via the mail likely in an envelope stamped “do not bend.” I didn’t bother to attend the graduation of my Bachelor’s, even though it took me 4 years to complete, I just couldn’t be bothered to fly 5 hours across 3 time zones to listen to a list of names. Of course my folks are a different story, which is why they flew almost 7 hours to London at insane rates just to see me prance around in my magician’s robes.

I believe the last time my folks saw each other was my high-school graduation, about 6 years ago, suffice it to say I’m hoping this time it works out better. We start off by meeting my dad for breakfast at the Rock Garden café in Covent Garden. He’s pretty sharp looking but his face looks strained, similar to that of someone in a dentist’s chair. He must be more stressed than I am. We order a very sub-standard and over-priced English breakfast, why is it that the touristy places have to be expensive AND crap, the best English breakfast comes from the little smoky diner on your local corner.

I arrive at the LSE and pick up my robes, and then its paparazzi time, click click click. After a few dozen shots we go into the hot stuffy theatre for the ceremony. Its long, boring, and dull. We re-emerge to head to the foyer for the reception, champagne orange juice and little sandwiches, huzzah. Of course it wasn’t the ceremony that I came for, I came for my friends, and it is good to see them again. We meet at the White Hart on Drury Lane for some proper pints (versus the 25cl goblet you get in Brussels) and laugh and joke. The bar is full of the dense smell of smoke that reminds me that here in this centuries old bar in England there's still a little character, versus the sterile cookie-cutter chic yuppie bars so popular back home. For me the year at the LSE is much more than the end day in which I shook the hand of a director I never knew, but the hundreds of days before that where I met the people and had the experiences that shaped and changed me.

The next day Tatevik and I overeat at the buffet breakfast, a very bad choice since today is the designated meal day. The folks probably would have wanted to have a formal dinner on Wednesday after grad but my father made clear that he couldn't tolerate a common dinner, besides I wanted to see friends at the bar. It starts off with Dim Sum with my dad, he eyeballs a restaurant near Russel Square but I ask if we can go to Shanghai Blues near Holborn, my favourite Chinese place in London. With a posh decor and an entire menu page dedicated to teas, it can come off as pretentious but the food is damn good. Without a reservation we have to settle for a small table but its fine for only 3 of us. Tatevik's never had Dim Sum, or used chopsticks for that matter, so I enjoy watching her as the strange and colourful dishes come. After the meal we walk around Oxford street and then head to the Natural History Museum for ice skating. Unfortunately I accidentally take us off the tube at Knightsbridge so we walk quite a ways only to find the rink is a giant puddle and closed off. We wander the small market near the museum and then go in for the power tour as Tatevik drags us through all 4 sections of the museum in around 1 hour.

Even though its been almost 6 hours I'm still nowhere near hungry enough for what's coming next, but I wouldn't miss it for the world. I asked John to book "someplace expensive", and he indulges me by booking us a table in the Picasso room of l'Escargot in Soho. My cousin Casey and his wife are there, the powerhouse couple they're both loaded professionals working in the city, plus John, Mum, Sammy and Tatevik. Through the all the wine, food and laughs the 3-4 hour long dinner is exactly what I had in mind. Afterwards Casey, Lora, Tatevik and I grab a martini across the road. Unfortunately the combination of English, Chinese, French, and a lot of booze does a number on me that night, still it was all well worth it.

"Travel is only glamorous in retrospect" -Paul Theroux

2006-12-18T15:18:00.000+01:00

No one really knows where the expression “Murphy’s Law” came from, but the most accepted theory was that it was coined by military scientists at Edwards Air Force Base (named after Murphy Edwards). The spirit of the law is that “if something can go wrong it will”, or “anything that can go wrong will go wrong”. So if you choose a line at the grocery store it will be the slowest, if you drop your toast it will land jammy side down, the day you forget your umbrella it pours and vice versa. In 5 days I travelled thrice, from Brussels-London-Paris-Brussels, and something had to go wrong at every step. At the same time though, amazingly, everything worked out at the end. Every ticket got printed, every train and plane was a caught, and no luggage was lost. So perhaps not everything that could go wrong did, but enough things went wrong to make the trip sufficiently colourful.

Brussels to London
Departing 12/12/06 19:35 at Brussels Airport

Brussels airport is only 1 bus stop away from NATO, so we opted to fly to London instead of the train. Its almost 6 and we’re ready to go when Tatevik calls, she thinks the French rail company has refunded her for a ticket she had bought. I check her statement and say that it appeared so. She had bought a ticket for New Year’s eve from Paris to Lyon when really she should have bought Paris to Bourg en Bresse. As with most modern day tickets it was the non-changeable, non-refundable, totally inflexible sort. Faced with the possibility of spending New Year’s alone in Lyon at the train station, Tatevik wrote what must have been an impassioned appeal to SNCF, who gave her back her money. Unfortunately she wants to buy the new ticket now, a process which slowly requires us to recheck that we have the right date, time, departure, and arrival station over, and over, and over. We buy the new tickets and print them but now we have to haul ass to the bus. We get to the airport and check-in, and are told that we cannot sit together and have to take middle-seats, I don't mind since its only an hour long flight (in theory). We shop around duty free for a while and then decide to go through security when we realize, oh shit, we’re screwed. The line is enormous, in typical Belgium style they have 3 security checkpoints and they are crawling along. We pick a line and begin waiting, but our flight leaves in 30 minutes and the line looks like its an hour.

We stand, I’m shifting my feet left and right like I have to pee and nervously peek above to see if in the past 3 seconds I’ve moved closer to the xray machine. I turn to Tatevik, “This is so typically incompetent, I haven’t waited in a security line this long since my flight 5 weeks after 9/11, and at least then there was a good reason for it.” Its at that moment that the eves dropping lady in front of me turns around, she’s about 5 feet tall and wide, with a huge poof of curly hair and clothes about a size too small, I hear her distinct American twang as she says “There’s still a very good reason for it.” I roll my eyes a little and say “I’m not so sure about that”. She turns back around muttering something about “well then you ought to go back where you came from”. I still don't know what she meant but fair enough, she believes in the necessity of airport security, she’s entirely entitled to hold that view. So when we finally get to the security checkpoint, I’m sure she doesn’t mind at all that she gets the full workdown by security, probably the reason why there is a huge queue. They take her aside, have her take off her shoes, riffle through her bags, I see her getting on some strange detector machine as I walk out. Tatevik and I spend about 5 seconds getting through, and I smile a little to myself as we leave her behind. We hustle off to our gate, and we would have missed the plane, were it not for the fact that its 30 minutes late, I’ve never been so thankful for a delayed flight. Unfortunately that wasn’t the only delay, due to winds we spend about 30 minutes circling pointlessly above Heathrow before finally landing only to wait again for a gate to dock into. Then it was a 23 stop ride on the Piccadilly line finally leading us to bed.

London to Paris
Departing 16/12/06 7:37 at Waterloo Station

I’ve seen the tragedy many times before, some hapless tourist buys a European train ticket on the internet with a credit card of a spouse, or one they just don’t take with them. Then they show up to collect their tickets at the station only to be told that, totally and without any exception, you cannot get your tickets without the credit card used for purchase. I’ve seen a woman on the verge of sobs as she’s told that there’s no way she can board her train without the credit card, “but my husband bought it”. In fairness they do have a disclaimer on the website now, even so the policy strikes me as idiotic, if it isn’t necessary for plane tickets why would it be for train, and the seat is reserved to the name, so why can’t a passport suffice?

We’re eating with my mum, stepdad John, and sister Samantha. My mum quips:

“During today’s shopping Sammy and I did a little damage on John’s credit card”.
“Why are you using John’s credit card?”
“Oh, well I have to, I left mine behind in Canada”
“You left it behind?! I bought your Eurostar tickets on it! You’re screwed you can’t get them now! I called you before to specifically tell you NOT to forget it!!!”

Well John and Mum have a common credit account, same numbers, different names. Maybe, maybe it can work with a little negotiation. I give mum and John their reservation numbers and tell them to go to Waterloo to sort it out.

The alarm goes off at 5am, I hate waking up this early. I turn it off but don’t get up, instead I just lie there and accidentally let 30 minutes pass by. I jump out of bed, oh God we have to pack, we have to get ready. We furiously stuff all the clothes into bags, shower, dress, and roll it all outside. Mum, John and Sammy are there. We’re taking the tube, a cab probably would have made more sense but in this quiet area there aren’t any roaming for fares and we don’t have time to book one. We take the Piccadilly to Leicester Sq. and switch to the Northern Line. We’re making good time when I say:

“Well maybe we can get a coffee”
“Oh, well we still have to get the tickets”
“What? Why didn’t you get the tickets yesterday!!”
“Well we decided that it would be a waste of two hours to go there twice”
“Do you have any idea how long this could take to sort out, you could miss your train!!”
“Well then we’ll just buy new tickets”
“Oh my god even buying your tickets in advance it cost hundreds of Euros!!! Two hours of your time isn’t worth that!!! Besides how do you know they even have 3 tickets still to sell!!”

It's as I’m saying this that I realize we’ve just left Tottenham Court Road, I shoot straight out of my chair. “Oh my god! We’re going in the wrong direction!!” We’re heading north instead of south, so we hop off at the next station and switch sides to go back south. I’m sitting in a daze cursing that I would have gladly gotten the tickets for them if they had just told me. We’re approaching Embankment, the station before Waterloo, when the announcer comes on “There are no trains going to Waterloo station, the Waterloo underground station is closed”. Shit! What are the odds!! We jump out of the train and I carry our heavy sack all the way to the top to catch a cab. We’re waiting opposite the Thames for a cab but its dark and there’s none around. Now the time is getting really close, and they still have to try and get their tickets. They are all asking how far it is to walk, I know exactly the path, we’d take the footbridge over and run past the National Theatre, at a good pace we could sweatily arrive in 15 minutes, but the ladies are wearing heels and we have bags. We see a cab heading in the other direction but it’ll do. The 5 of us plus luggage are a snug fit but we’re off.

We get in the station when it dawns on me that we’re at the wrong end of the station! Waterloo station is one of the longest ones with maybe 30 platforms, I take John’s credit card and the reservation number and run ahead with the suitcase. I’m trying to get the tickets for the 2nd time when they show up, its not working. We’ve got about 20 minutes until the train leaves but they only let you check in until about 10-15 minutes before, and then there’s security and passport control. John and Mum head for the queue as Tatevik and I get our tickets. I contemplate going ahead of them but then how will the day shape up, painfully I suspect. They’re at the front of the queue where a sympathetic Eurostar rep says she can sort them out and goes back to arrange the tickets. The big board changes to announce that our Eurostar train has gone from “Check-in”, to “Closing”, meaning that check-in will soon be closed off. Tatevik and I do our check-in at least, which consists of sliding your ticket into a turnstile of sorts. I can see them coming up so we head for security. We go through security and the passport line is enormous. We look behind to see that Mum, John and Sammy are at Security but they aren’t processing people until the passport line clears up. We go through passport control and wait, and wait. Its about 5 minutes until leaving when they come through. We head straight up to the platform and we’ve got car 16, one of the last, we’re walking down the train when its noticed that I’m not carrying the new attaché case my father gave me as a gift.

Do I leave it, do I get it, do I leave it, do I get it, what happens if the train leaves without me, will the bag go to lost and found or will they blow it up?? I take a step back and forth about 10 times when Tatevik says JUST GO!!! There’s no escalator down, its designed so that once your are on the platform you have to board the train. I have to run down opposite the escalator past people coming up while two very confused men checking tickets watch me. I say “I LEFT SOMETHING I’LL BE RIGHT BACK!!” I get back to the passport area, its also only one way, so I jump under the red cord to pass the police. No one pulling guns on me yet…I run to the xray machine at security and there’s my case with two guards looking at it with walkie talkies, I run up, its mine I say and rush off before they can answer. I go back to the passport line and go straight to the man who already stamped me, I say in panicky French that he’s already stamped me, he opens my passport which is riddled with stamps and decides to let me go. I run back up the escalator to the platform and am running alongside the train when I finally catch up to them. They are up near the dinning car when a man on platform starts running down blowing his whistle, they pull the stairs inside the train. “Get in, get in anywhere, just GET ON THE TRAIN!!” We jump the gap with the bags onto the train in the restaurant car with the man in the kitchen helping us, our bags barely make it in when the automatic doors close and lock. In near shock we stumble to our seats and collapse. Everyone can laugh about it except me who’s too tired even to smile. I take a tally at what I would have lost if I had left the case behind. Digital camera, new Burberry cufflinks (grad present), digital camera charger, 2 books, and of course the new case itself. Close… too close.

Paris to Brussels
Departing 17/12/06 20:55 at Gare du Nord

John, Mum and Sammy are taking their train about 15 minutes after ours so we all head to Gare du Nord together. The station is open air, cold and drafty. They’ve installed red pillars equipped with heat lamps inside and we move to stand by them. I leave Mum, John and Sammy with the bags while Tatevik and I go up to get our tickets. We put Tatevik’s card in the machine, it asks her for a pin, she doesn’t know the pin for this card. Well, we can do it at the counter. We join the queue, and I tell Tatevik to get her passport for ID. She asks, “where did I leave my passport?”, I calmly ask her to think about it, having an instant nightmare of having to grab a taxi to run back to the hotel. Its in her purse, relief. We get to the counter and we give the reservation code and card. We anxiously hope she doesn’t ask Tatevik to give a pin. She doesn’t, instead she just looks at us and says “This isn’t the card”. We tell her we are sure it’s the card and she tries again. I’m looking at our printouts when I see page 2, page 2 says that the purchase was under Taylor. Did I book it under my mum’s card? Oh shit, maybe, but she doesn’t have her card!!! I panic and explain to the lady that we don’t have the card, she tells me, predictably, that there’s no way to get the tickets. She suggests we buy new tickets, and agrees to refund our old ones even though we bought non-refundable tickets. But there are no tickets left on our train, only first class for a later train, it’ll cost 120 euros for the pair. I see no other choice when Tatevik reminds me that John’s card is here and that it has the same numbers. Its worth a shot. We leave her and I run to look for him.

They aren’t where I left them, I run up and down the station looking when I see mum alone, I ask her where John is, she says he’s left for a smoke. Just then Tatevik runs to me and urgently asks “Do you have my wallet?” “Me? No, why?” She says she doesn’t have it, my stomach sinks and I pat my pockets and pull out her wallet, I have no idea when or why I pocketed it, my brain is stressed and turned off. We spot John walking outside the station and we run to him. I explain the situation to him and take him with me. We go back to the lady and ask her to take John’s card. It doesn’t work. Well that’s it, les jeux sont faits, in my stressed and broken French I ask her to reimburse the old tickets and book new ones. Suddenly I look back at the printout that says Taylor, its for the Hotel, not the train tickets, so maybe we didn’t use my mum’s card. There’s still my card. I quickly ask her if she’s already refunded the ticket, she says no, I tell her there’s one more card that could possibly do it. I give her my visa. In the meantime I tell Tatevik who hasn’t followed the French conversation that we’re probably booking a later more expensive ticket. She’s asking how late, how will we kill time etc, when they lady announces that it’s the right card and pushes the tickets and everything through the little window. I can tell she’s had enough of us but we thank her so many times she breaks into a small small smile.

What do Prince and Macedonia have in common?

2006-12-12T15:27:00.000+01:00

Last week I went with a colleague to the Macedonian delegation, we were reviewing a list of NATO activities that they want to participate in for 2007. The list of activities is chosen via a computer system, however the Macedonians refuse to use the system themselves, they boycott it because in the system they are labelled as FYROM. Macedonia became independent in 1993 and named itself the Republic of Macedonia. The Greeks rejected this name claiming that it belongs to Greek culture and the ancient Kingdom of Macedon, and that the modern day peoples who are descendants of slavic tribes have no claim to it. Nevermind that the people living in the region have self-identified as Macedonian since at least 1944, the Greeks refused to budge resulting in a dilemma at the UN, where the body could not admit the new state without an accepted name. The temporary compromise was to officially refer to the country as FYROM (the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia), a name that makes grows more archaic as each year passes. At NATO we use the official name FYROM, except the Turkish delegation which recognizes Macedonia, probably just to piss off the Greeks.

I forgot I was going to the Private Office today, and because I was pressed for time I didn't bother to shave. I stare disapprovingly at my peachfuzz in the mirror but there's nothing to do about it. I head in and wait for the Macedonian Foreign Minister to arrive, different levels of visitors get different degrees of treatment. Last week when it was a President the Sec-Gen went down to the front door to meet him and walked him up to the meeting room. The Foreign Minister has to make his own way up and he waits in the couch area for the Sec-Gen to come out, at just 30 he stands out a bit, though not nearly as much as me.

The Sec-Gen mentions the importance of resolving the name issue, as his predecessors have probably been doing for the past decade. I remember how once a colleague suggested that the computer system could maybe use flags instead of names for the countries, as a way around the dispute, I really wonder what the programmers who probably spent years studying engineering think about our requests.

Despite the fact that everyone knows the conflict is basically at a standstill everyone talks hopefully about resolving it. The foreign minister quips that he would be prepared to replace "former" with "future" and "Yugoslav" with "European", when the entire room laughs I wonder whether its because they all think its clever, or because they think its so unlikely.

Aachener Weihnachtsmarkt

2006-12-10T19:40:00.000+01:00

Aachen (Aix-la-chapelle) is the westernmost city of Germany, and gets it name from the Roman Aquis-Granum because of the hot sulphur springs under the city. The holy roman emperor Charlemagne visited the town in the Christmas of 768 and decided to build his palace in the city so that he could enjoy the revitalising qualities of the springs. So it seemed only fitting that after the aching 2 hour long bus ride that Tatevik and I would head straight for the spa Carolus Thermen. Unlike the centuries old bath-houses you find in Budapest or Istanbul its totally modern. They have several whirpools and pools, some inside some outside where the steam rises up and makes clouds. We soak for about 2 hours taking in all the mineral-goodness and relish the heat before spending the rest of the day outside. The water's salt and minerals made us float up quite easily, including the little dress attached to Tatevik's bikini!

After the spa we were starved so we hit the market where all my favourite German treats were available. Our list of delicious goodies included reibekuchen (deep fried potato and onion cakes with applesauce), half-meter bratwurst, schweinehaxen (a roasted pig's leg), chocolate covered marzipan, and of course plenty of Gluhwein (mit rum or mit amaretto). We headed over to the famous Aachen Cathedral which was built by Charlemagne and contains a special shrine containing his bones (well, most of this bones). The most striking feature is the choir room which has glass windows rising up the entire length of the wall. The windows themselves had been destroyed numerous times because of war/fire and the current windows were installed after WW2 but are nonetheless very impressive. In order to see the choir (and the throne of Charlemagne), you have to take a tour and there is only one english tour per day. We went to buy tickets but the tour had sold out, so we had to buy tickets for a tour 2 hours later in German. Luckily I was able to sneak us into the English tour, the tourguide wasn't fooled though, we handed our tickets and she asked (these are for the 4pm tour yea? its ok just go ahead). A really lucky break since a tour at 4 would have really pressed us for time (and of course we wouldn't have understood anything). On the 2nd floor sits the very plain throne of Charlemagne, a simple chair consisting of marble slabs brought from Jerusalem where supposedly they were part of a pavement where Jesus stood.

We nearly get lost finding our way back to the bus but luckily we left a little time aside just in case, its another 2.5 hours back and despite traffic we are on time, too bad there's no warm spa bath waiting to help my back this time.

Croatian Presidential Visit

2006-12-07T15:02:00.000+01:00

I spent about 10 minutes in the bathroom fixing my tie and picking lint off my jacket, staring in the mirror and fussing about something every 2 minutes. I headed off with a colleague to the private office, the small elite antechamber of power. Nicer furniture, nicer carpet, its own guard, not exactly swanky but by NATO standards it’s the Ritz. I’m introduced to a couple PO staff, they’ll introduce me to the Secretary-General downstairs, the President is running late though so it will be 10 minutes. I’m standing around when the SG whizzes by, its time to go. We’re in the front hall, the NOS people are wearing formal uniforms I haven’t seen before, there’s cameramen and people buzzing about. Somebody takes me up to the SG, I can just catch the end sentence of one of his aides who says “no you just have to shake his hand…”, the SG turns around and I’m introduced, one his aides asks “Who are you?” , “I’m an intern”, “ohhhh, you look like an intern!” ouch!

A police motorcycle rolls by the door and then the stream of black cars for the President’s motorcade, he rides in a silver car though, I wonder if its wise to single himself out. The SG goes up and gives him a warm handshake and we start to walk down the corridor, the camera men are walking backwards ahead of us to take photos for every moment. We go up to the private office and into a small meeting room. A moment of panic hits me as I wonder where in God’s name do I sit? Well there’s 5 on their side and they take one side of the table, so I opposite 1 over from the SG. The President starts off his remarks by introducing his delegation, this is my Defence Minister, this is my Deputy PM, etc etc. It dawns on one of the SG’s aides that no one told him my name, the colleague next to me leans over and quietly but pressingly asks “what is your name?”, he writes it down and slips it over to the SG, a moment later he introduces me like I’ve been an office fixture for years, very smooth.

Some Ground Rules

2006-12-06T12:17:00.000+01:00

I've always had a thing against blogs, mostly because they strike me as egotistical. A webpage dedicated to you and what you think, its almost like building a shrine to yourself. I mean who reads these anyways. The internet gives you access to hundreds and hundreds of pages about every interesting topic from 19th century pornography to which celebrity marriage is likely to end in tears. So who wants to read about what I'm up to?

So why start one? Well, a blog also has the quality of being a kind of mirror for yourself. One or two entries don't really amount to much, but people who have had long running blogs have a kind of record that outlines them in a way, sort of like personal journals. I have a journal actually (its in the photo), I bought it years ago in a small art store off Spadina in Toronto. I mostly filled it with details from trips I've taken, the museums I saw, the restaurants I liked, people I met in hostels, etc. I also pasted a lot into it, especially air and ticket stubs, so its like a scrapbook. I've only ever shared it with 1 other person, and even then I kept parts of it to myself, because of that it will always be a much more honest record. Blogs are read by your friends, and who really wants to fess up to being a total ass on a public webpage. So I think by their nature blogs must always portray the author as better than they are. Anyways while I like the journal I haven't touched it in over a year, who has time to get out the pens and sit and write anymore. There's a small chance I might be able to regularly write here.

I obviously have issues with blogs, so I've made a few commandments to help me:

1. I will write in it only when there is something worth writing. There is no need for anyone to know what I bought in the grocery store.

2. I will not write political editorials. I share my opinion often enough in a bar, I might still toss a remark in here now and then but no dedicated entries.

3. I will not mudsling, people who trash talk on blogs are cowards.

4. I will not write articles about girlfriends/dating/breakups/etc

5. I will not get dramatic

6. I will use full sentences with proper spelling and grammar, cuz its n. a sms whr u pay per lttr

Ok, well this is good to begin with, I'll probably add some and then break some, but let's get started...