l'Etranger in Brussels

I rose at an inhumane hour this morning to get the first train to Brussels. Another day trip in the capital of Europe lay in store. I was going to a high-level meeting for which I was an impostor: totally unqualified, unprepared, and which would be conducted in a language I don't understand. I did not enjoy my 4:45 alarm.

The train is affectionately known as the zombie train. I understood why as I foggily bumbled around Brussels vainly searching for the meeting venue.

I briefly entertained hopes of concealing my linguistic inadequacies by combining my mediocre French with a breezy arrogance that I assumed would disguise me as a local. My delusions were duly shattered as I entered the building, where a security guard gruffly mumbled a question to which I casually replied 'oui', only for him to stare at me blankly, before asking in perfect English what meeting I was there for. I meekly dug into my bag for the invite, and resigned myself to being another monolingual Brit abroad.

When I finally reached the right room I found a small group of well-acquainted and effortlessly polyglot development policy types, who eventually acknowledged my bleary-eyed presence with polite nods. Before the fraud of my presence at the meeting could be unmasked the meeting's chair, the eldest of a long line-up of EC officials sat before us, had launched into the introduction.

I eventually found my interpretation headphones and settled into the following cycle: try to listen with the English translation at low volume in order to learn some French; try to listen in English to take notes for the report I had to write on the meeting; get confused by the interpreter's unerring speech patterns and imperfect translations of concepts I'd struggle with anyway; get embarrassed then immediately relieved no-one could see my inner failings; zone out and indulge in lengthening blinks until someone spots me and I sit up straight, take a deep breath, then try to listen to the speaker to practice my French...

The meeting itself was slightly dry and laboured, but explored an interesting and important shift within European international development policy. The core of the meeting was a recent report assessing the EU's first attempts to involve non-state actors (civil society, local authorities, etc.) In not only the implementation, but also the design of their development programmes. an unquestionably positive move - how can one hope to 'help' people effectively if they're not even given a role in the design of that help? And as the world's largest spender of development aid, the EU has a huge amount of influence. Of course the new policy has not been implemented perfectly, but I was impressed with how openly the official present tried to understand the various complaints. Overall it was a useful and instructive meeting, even if most of it went over my head.

Brussels is a unique and fascinating place. Before I started going with work I'd unthinkingly swallowed the media's line that it's a dull town of irrelevant institutions and anally retentive bureaucrats, removed from the real world. It definitely exists in its own bubble, but the more time I spend there the more I see that it's actually a beautiful and lively city of complex but noble institutions and huge number of immensely bright, well meaning and attractive young professionals. My sense of their brilliance this morning was probably amplified by the certainty of my own uselessness.

And so as I dozed on the train back, unpicking the day's events, I realised that, although I hadn't contributed a great deal, it is essential for my development to be in these types of situations: to improve my French, to improve my understanding of the debates, and above all to get into the culture of the fascinating and hugely influential Brussels bubble.

The best conference in the world?

It promised to be the conference to end all conferences: 2500 high-level businesspeople from across Europe gathering to hear dozens of VIPs speak in a lavish two-day event.

The first day's agenda included no fewer than three heads of state, as well as a dozen European Commissioners, and President Barroso. The venue was the European Business Summit, in Brussels.

The main topic of conversation was, surprise surprise, the recession. The first plenary included a speech by the dry-as-dust Belgian PM. Belgium, on account of its crippling internal division and infamous inability to form a government, has been referred to as the world's most successful failed state, so I wasn't sure how seriously to take his unimpressive boasts. I was about to nod off until he delivered the most embarrassing moment of the conference by ending his speech with a meek nod to Obama: "Can Europe overcome the recession. I say 'yes we can'." I felt half the audience groan.

Unfortunately this set the tone for a series of extremely dull speeches about the recession, and the dangers of protectionist measures being adopted. There was a lot of pro-European, anti-American smugness on display. Vision and charisma were sadly in short supply.

It turned out that nobody there was particularly interested in us either. As one of the only civil society groups there, and a fairly small one at that, it took just a few seconds of our elevator pitch before those we spoke to realised that they were wasting their time, as they were not going to make money out of us.

Following more short conversations and dull contributions from heads of state - the Czech PM, having resigned two days prior to the event, had his awkward deputy explain his recent controversies; the Turkish president mumbled about why Turkey should join the EU - things finally got interesting, with the onset of the cocktail reception.

As we hungrily gobbled the surprisingly few canapes that made their way to our perch, Carlo and I saw what must have been the youngest delegate at the conference, an unimpressed 15 year old boy in a suit ambling through the crowds. I wondered who would pay the €2,500 conference fee to have their bored kid there, but as Carlo explained, for the ruling classes it's essential to thrive in this kind of absurd environment. By the time he's 18 that guy will be running events like this.

After some trial and error we found the perfect spot to catch the waiters on their way from the kitchen, allowing us our pick of snacks and instant access to the endless supply of champagne. I was starting to enjoy being off duty, until Carlo pointed out a familiar face, sitting alone in the corner.

Will Hutton is one of the few authors that I can say changed my life. When I was 17 I read his tome on global capitalism, The World We're In, and it ignited my interest in geopolitics and worldwide inequality. And here I was, about to say hi. As we walked over to him I started to get nervous.

He was very friendly, and the three of us chatted for a few minutes. He came across as a true intellectual: relaxed, sharp, and with a power-play anecdote for any occasion. He casually described introducing Gordon Brown to Ed Balls (arguably now the real deputy PM), and described how New Labour came five years too late. I was hanging off his every word like a giddy schoolboy meeting his favourite footballer, until we got to the front of the queue to the gala dinner, and Carlo and I were asked for special tickets that we didn't know we needed. Will Hutton waved goodbye and casually wondered in, as we were escorted back out by the polite but assertive ushers.

In the end we managed to con our way in, and with some further creative honesty managed to get a seat at one of the sponsors' tables. But it was barely worth it. The food was good, but not great. Our company on the table - a Belgian consultant and fellow gatecrasher - was as dull as his PM. In the end it was probably not the best conference in the world.