Lessons in Diplomacy August 29, 2006

When Arabic comes through the English channel the UN delegates lose all composure and mayhem ensues! Laughter. Excitement. Loud and childlike chatter that arises in a third grade class when the teacher’s boyfriend knocks at the door, or Sheldon lets out an armpit fart. It’s a crazy time when the channels get crossed and the Chairman bangs his little mallot and interrupts the meeting in his very charming New Zealand accent, “Uh, excuse me distinguished colleagues. Does anyone else hear Arabic on the English Channel? May I request that the technicians look into this problem. I suspend the meeting until further notice.”

It is also a crazy time when delegates, after a long day of tedious deliberations, are invited to unwind at a reception hosted by Finland one night, by New Zealand another, Costa Rica a third and Argentina a fourth. Really, no one discriminates. Yes, I even forced myself to taste a Merlot on Tuesday night. In fact, I had no choice but to drink it and keep drinking it all night long. The beauty of the United Nations is that, with the objective of international cooperation, all delegates will go to all receptions no matter which wine is being served. And they will drink it and they will pretend to love it. It is purely altruistic, purely diplomatic and rather self-sacrificial.

Diplomacy is hard work. The diplomat must always retain composure and grace under duress, whether it be political tension, personal attacks or severe intoxication. I witnessed one such moment of shining diplomacy at the Finnish reception on Wednesday night. The distinguished representative of an EU state dragged himself out to this reception out of an obligation to stand united under the European banner. You see, Finland currently holds the chair of the European Union at the UN and so the EU states must be seen as a cohesive unit, willing to compromise on ideologies and positions in order to speak as one unified voice via the Finnish proxy.

So this distinguished delegate is sipping glass after glass of wine–white, red, rose, whatever is handed to him, to show support for his regional political association. In the midst of this sacrificial time for him, he catches a glimpse of a beautiful young woman from across the large reception hall. She catches his attention because, as opposed to all the other composed people in the room, her laugh is boisterous and her gesticulations are grandiose.

As a charming and refined diplomat, he fancies himself capable of wooing her by delivering her a glass of wine. Little does he know that this woman, although younger and less diplomatic than he, is well aware that the wine is free, and so this gesture, although appreciated, was not quite enough to convince her of this man’s worth.

Playful intellectual and political banter ensues between the two of them. Thinking she would find his experience captivating, he gives her tips on diplomacy and composure. He, twenty years her senior, thinks he holds some older-man mystique. She, however, just finds his sly advances amusing. After much too short a period of time, through his eclectic European accent and in what he hopes will come across as iambic pentametre, he tells her that “despite her young age”, he finds her unbearably beautiful and intriguing. She plays along because, well, why not. She is thoroughly amused.

Then he says, “Is there anyone behind me?”

She says, “No”.

His neck, like a chicken’s, shoots forward in an effort to allow his lips to land atop hers.

Despite her age, however, she had preempted this attack and casually moved her head back well before contact could be made.

The diplomat, not accustomed to stumbling, loses all balance, physical and emotional, spills his wine on the carpet and turns red. Trying to regain his composure, he says to the young woman with a crackle in his voice, “Why did you just cause that scene? Allowing me to kiss you would have been much more discreet than this!”

“Ah yes,” she replies, “But you, distinguished colleague, failed to react diplomatically to this contingency and so, despite your age, you have come across as inexperienced and foolish.”

Human Experiment #1 June 2, 2006

On a train.

Pleasant-looking man sitting behind young restless woman.

She scribbles a riddle on the back of a conference program and punctuates it with a footnote: “Reply in writing only. If you don’t want to play, crumple this up and throw at my head.”

She folds up the paper and feeds it through the space between her seat back and the window.

He looks up, confused.

She waves it, indicating he should take it, which he does.

She falls back into her seat and waits. Big smile on her face. Big excitement in her soul.

Will he play?

She hears papers ruffling, pencil cases opening.

Maybe Canadian train rides don’t have to be long and solitary. Sure this isn’t Europe where you’ll meet your soul mate on the train, but there is hope for original human interaction if one is open to it.

As she awaits a response, her mind and spirit fall back into the paced rhythm of the marathon she ran last week. The music in her ears is the same and the methodical chug of the wheels on the tracks carries her similarly, but less painfully, than her legs did.

Unlike this train ride, the 42 km run was preciously isolating.

Despite the ardour and the subsequent pain, in this moment she longs for nothing more than to be at that start line. That exhilarating sentiment of embarking on a journey that she was unsure of being able to complete was the very fuel that propelled her through the finish line 4 hours and 56 minutes later; not to mention the intensity of the physical exertion that lifted her mind into a higher sate of consciousness. She’d finally reconnected with herself and regained clarity and direction.

As such, she wanted to give someone else the chance to live out a little mystery and adventure, so as to give his day a bit more sparkle.

The folded program slides back through the space.

It reads: “Is it bigger than a breadbox? Feel free to reply with more than the traditional “yes” or “no”. You wouldn’t have a spare pen? I’m using the conductor’s.”

Witty. Good grammar. Complete sentences. Not averse to unorthodox situations. Human experiment #1: successful!

She provides a clue, a pen and an extra morsel of paper. Still no visual or verbal contact made. Neither desires either. The suspense heightens.

At least 30 minutes go by and two folded papers come back. The first with the correct answer to the riddle. The second with a brand new riddle for her to consider. “Once my name is uttered I no longer exist. Who am I?”

“Silence?” she writes immediately. “BTW, my name is Tirunesh, but I don’t usually cease to exist when my name is said. I’m not enigmatic enough.”

The note goes back.

She sees his reflection writing frantically in the traincar window. The excitement is mounting.

One page slides back. He keeps the other.
“Exactly! Also, ‘the current time’, but this answer falls lower on the EI*.”

A little further down on the page: “Graham”

At the bottom of the page: “*Enigmatic Index: 0 = Paris Hilton ………………….. 9 = Soviet Russia 1955-1960.”

She lets out a huge guffaw. She can’t believe that a total stranger has completely indulged her cryptic communication fantasy and has designed an EI by which it can now be measured! This exceeded all expectation.

The playful written banter continues back and forth, filling up page upon page of the conferenence program (incidentially, all of which he keeps), punctuated by the odd muffled giggle. But neither makes any attempt at other forms of communication.

The four-hour trip ends as quickly as a Nancy Drew. The train stops. The two youths gather their bags simultaneously, give one another a quick smiled glance and say, “See you later.”

They walk off the train just as they had boarded–complete strangers. However, they carry with them a secret but discreet connection. No indiscretions. No obscenities. No ulterior motives. Just an innocent little foray into the human desire for mystery.

…and to one another, mysterious they remained…

Rock Stars Should be Vaccinated Too May 3, 2006

We, the prosaic members of the workaday masses, could not possibly comprehend the joys and sorrows, and the trials and tribulations of the almighty rock star, even after he has passed his prime. You see, no matter how old a rock legend gets, to his loyal fans of yore, he still represents the indomitable, hip-gyrating, heart throb of his boyhood days. We, mere mortals, can accept our own processes of aging–the grey hairs, the crow’s feet, the crotchety moods, the unrelenting dementia–but ask us to acknowledge that our teenage rock star crush now classifies as antediluvian, and we’d much rather crowd-surf the moshers at a Megadeath concert.

What we are not wont to understand is that, apparently, rock stars are prey to a whole different set of ailments. You see, I went to a Little Tony concert the other night. For those of you who are not familiar with the Italian Elvis, I don’t recommend looking him up unless you are looking for a good chuckle. He’s old. Way passed his prime for a showman. But his fans are loyal to the point of squelching at his sight. Imagine, I was among crowds of senior citizens who, as they spotted Little Tony moving around backstage, may as well have been a bunch of 14 year-old girls shrieking in the presence of Justin Timberlake.

Tensions were thick and excitement was high as we awaited the music mogul’s appearance. When he finally walked down the stairs (slowly and with calculation), his apparent lethargy was veiled by the busy lights and frantic beat of the music he sang 40 years ago. The elderly woman standing beside me, as she moved her hips to the music in unfortunate syncopation with her husband’s, nudged me and yelled into my ear in her strong Italian accent, “Iya havea to watcha my husband. He hassa badda heart. Butta he loves a Little Tony!”

LT rocked out for about 4 songs and then passed the mike to his band-mate. Three men grabbed hold of the “living” legend and supported him up the stairs toward his dressing room.

“Oh shit,” I think to myself. “This guy’s gonna croak in front of his adoring crowd of superannuated fans. God only knows what kind of a chain reaction this is gonna have!”

We wait. The band plays on, trying desperately to come up with one song after another to appease the growing concern among the masses. They play YMCA, singing the chorus over and over again, since their Italian brains don’t know the rest of the song. The old folks aren’t dancing anymore. It’s one thing to aggravate your arrhythmia by dancing for LT, but it’s just not worth it for poorly translated cover songs sung by his backup singers.

Finally, the self-important, self-proclaimed media mogul of Ottawa’s Italian community, comes out to give us the update. “Little Tony caught a chill on his way here and his intestines are blocked up. He will not be resuming the show. He’s been rushed to the ER.”

WTF?! You’ve got to be kidding me! THIS is the explanation you give us? Since when does a burst of cold air cause constipation, and since when does constipation constitute a medical emergency. I admit I’m no doctor, but I have bowels, and very temperamental ones at that. And never in all my years of battling intolerances and tropical parasites and IBS, have my bowels ever become blocked due to frigid weather conditions.

And so, dear friends, it is my humble conclusion that the rock star has a genetic make-up that renders him susceptible to illnesses that we humans may not even venture to imagine because they are simply too stupid for our evolved minds to conjure.

But, since we derive such pleasure from the entertainment the rock star provides, may I invite our humanoid doctors to invent a vaccine for CRIB (Cold-related intestinal blockage) so as to protect our beloved musicians from these embarrassing incidents?