Berlin - best of all?

Having declared my love for Lisbon just a few weeks ago, I have been unfaithful already. I was in Berlin earlier this week, and it now challenges fantastic Lisbon for my affections.

It was only a 36 hour trip, but while I was there I had the unmistakable feeling that Germans are indeed a master race. Everywhere I looked the people seemed to be healthier, more beautiful, more intelligent, more relaxed, and more efficient. A homeless man tried to sell a magazine in the metro, and not only was he impeccably polite, but his canine sidekick was so well trained as to trot up and down the carriages offering the magazine to passengers from within a plastic folder in its mouth.

After the organised chaos of London, Berlin felt incredibly civilised. The streets are wide, and the cycle lanes enormous; the roads are never busy and traffic cruises along at an amiable pace. While London blindly aims to become the new Manhatten, Berlin's blend of beautiful old and tasteful new architecture is generally low-rise, and there is an abundance of green space, especially right in the centre of town next to the parliament. For a metropolis of two million it feels as sedate and welcoming as a small town, whilst also being one of the most vibrant cities in the world.

I was there to run a couple of meetings, and not wanting to waste a charities money stayed in suitably squalid accommodation, managing to find one of the city's few ugly buildings to call home for a night. The sewage pipes in our enormous hostel shook violently every time a neighbour put them to use, and the blinds fell apart when opened. It was next door to the North Korean embassy, and aside from the towering fence around one of them, the two buildings looked identical. As I went with a colleague to get food we saw the North Korean diplomats' young children playing in the embassy compound, stretching their arms through the impenetrable fence in what looked like a tragic bid to escape.

The meetings we held went alright, though we soon realised that the Germans are a touch audience. Long the industrial powerhouse of Europe, with enormous trade surplus, they are not used to relying on outsiders. (While the war and especially the Wall are still recent memories, the Marshall Plan seems well and truly forgotten.) So our offer to strengthening their civil society through pan-European collaboration was met with a cool 'so what'. But there were some glimmers of hope and we'll keep plugging away.

Some visitors to Berlin may think that the Wall remains an unhealthy obsession for Berliners. Every map of the city has it marked in a fat red line, and an initiative to mark the footprint of the wall is almost complete. I was reminded of the video's on sale in beautiful Dubrovnik, showing the city's pounding by 'Yugoslav' artillery.

But it could also be seen as a brave attempt to acknowledge the past. The scars of the city's division are still apparent: much of the no man's land separating the two sides remains wasteland, while the starkly contrasting housing on both sides is clearly evident.

This contrast has given rise to an interesting social phenomenon, where the poorer eastern part of the city has attracted a predictable mix of bohemians and artists, making it the coolest part of the city, though now increasingly populated by 'yuppies pretending to be poor'. Apparently they're making the place boring: Starbucks et al are moving in and the interesting galleries and parties are harder to find.

This case was put to me as an example of the importance of social capital by a German intellectual I met in Lisbon two weeks prior. He explained governments narrow-mindedly turf out squatters because they think more money can be made from property in other ways, ignoring the social capital that squatters may bring to an area. The former New York Mayor Ed Koch tapped into this when he said that he only needed the artists in Brooklyn until they could no longer afford to live there.

But despite the encroaching gentrification and the sprouting of a dull and generic western city-scape in areas such as Potzdamer Platz, Berlin remains intensely vibrant, independent and, dare I say it, 'edgy'. However I'm reliably informed that, while it's indisputably a great place, it's nowhere near as dynamic as Hamburg, Munich, or Freiburg. I have a host of potential mistresses awaiting.

Andalucia: home is where the history is

My parents have done well: though not rich, they have carved out for themselves a most idyllic life in the stunning mountains of Andalusia, near a small town called Gaucin.

They met in Spain in the 70s and moved back when I left home in 2002. It's now the family home, though I've never lived there for longer than eight weeks and it doesn't feel like home to me.

I've visited every year of my life except 2008, when my growing concern at climate change prevented me from flying 'unnecessarily'. But I finally relented and have just spent a week there, swimming, sleeping, reading and relaxing. Principles have a high price.

My parents' place is an ongoing labour of love, having grown slowly from a modest hut in the early 80s to the comfortable villa that it is today. I spent my days lounging around by the pool, deciding whether to go for the deck chair or the hammock, and playing with my fantastic two-year old nephew.

Imagine lying here, in a crisp 27C, with nothing but the distant sounds of birds, crickets, and goats' bells gently tinkling. It is the perfect place to relax.

Though quiet and rural, Gaucin is far from boring. There are all manner of cultural quirks to keep the nosey visitor amused.

It's a very traditional village. The elderly man who grazes his sheep on my parents' small fields uses tools and methods as his grandfather did, and has never travelled more than a hundred kilometres from the village. He is typical of his generation.

Of course the younger generation expects more. Born into MTV and YouTube rather than Franco's austere republic, they are like young people in any advanced liberal democracy: demanding, noisy, restless. They smoke dope behind the blacked-out windows of small cars with shiny rims and deafening sub-woofers just as my peers did in my sleepy home town in England.

This much is typical of the area, but what sets Gaucin apart from the neighbouring white villages is its large number of foreign residents. My parents were among the first, but now there are dozens of couples (generally without children and approaching, or past, retirement) from across Europe, north America and even Japan. These foreigners mostly don't wear gold chains, read The Sun or demand egg and chips for dinner like the stereotypical Brits abroad, and most speak excellent Spanish, but I sense that their presence still brings a tension within the village. They are resented for not being local, for pushing up house prices. Yet without the expats most of the village would be unemployed, and the local economy would be desperately stagnant. They've also started an impressive art collective.

The expat scene is something to behold: gin and tonic on the veranda, endless games of bridge, and the Archers on Radio 4. It feels semi colonial, partly because many of the expats were part of that scene in days gone by. One expat, a rather posh fellow named George, has recently build stables neighbouring my parents' land, complete with infuriatingly noisy peacocks and geese. He complained that our unkempt field - which has been left to grow into a semi-wild natural habitat - was 'harbouring beasts' (i.e. mongeese and stoats) which were attacking his beloved birds. (Parallels to President Bush accusing 'unfriendly' countries of harbouring "terr-ists"). When my father said that he didn't know whether these 'beasts' were in fact residing in our field, George asked incredulously "well don't you walk your land?!". My father conveyed his deep sadness at the beasts' attacks, secretly hoping that they'd cull the rest of George's screeching flock as soon as possible.

And that's not all. Besides the peasant farmers leading near medieval lives, the typically 'independent' youth, and the bizarre expat scene, there is also a truly labyrinthine and machiavellian local political scene, complete with corruption scandals (both the traditional backhander and the topical expenses varieties), and vote-rigging allegations. And all of this in a cinematically picturesque village.

The evening before I left was the summer equinox, and we were invited to mark the occasion at the remote farmhouse where my parents met and first lived together. Our host, having lived there the 30 years since they left, was an incredibly eccentric and extrovert 83 year old. An architect, he worked under the legendary Le Corbusier, and still designs stunning buildings to this day. His office is the height of modernity, utilising every technology, yet has no car, walking the 7km to get there every day, and lives without doors or electricity. As we ate in growing darkness he initially refused to light candles for fear of undermining the stars' splendour, only relenting when wine was spilled over the fully-laden table by a friend bravely trying to dice a watermelon blind.

The other guests were a fascinating and charming bunch of ageing hippies, most of whom had been in Spain for over 30 years. Unlike most of Gaucin's expats, they are an older generation. Their sense of belonging in Spain is total, as most have been there longer than anywhere else. It is their home for the rest of their lives, and seeing them so clearly in love with their adopted country was touching.

Though I love the place, it doesn't feel like home to me. I disgracefully only speak very poor Spanish. But it's where my parents' heart is, and until I find my own idyll, it's good enough for me.

Lisbon: learning in luxury

Hot on the heels of being cringingly branded a 'young leader' by being selected for the Intercultural Navigation programme, I was last week elevated to international heights by being graced with an invitation to the BMW Foundation's European Young Leaders Forum. However unlike the British Council, which houses the leaders of the future in musty dorms, the BMW Foundation put us up in a five star hotel, in Lisbon. (I must confess that for both schemes I was selected not on merit, but on a recommended-by-a-friend type basis - in the brave new world of our network society it's not what you know, but which networks you know.)

As expected, the Forum's participants were high-calibre: the group of 40 hailed from over 20 countries, all were extremely smart and successful, and the breadth of their fields was stunning. Thy spanned the full range of professional sectors, from the most blood curdlingly corporate (a Ukrainian entrepreneur explained that his priority was not only to have a nice car, but the most expensive Mercedes on the market), to the most esoteric academia (a Latvian professor baffled the entire room with his absurdly verbose explanations of even the simplest points), to the most no-nonsense public sector (a Dutch European Central Banker delivered dreadful dry jokes and economic assessments in identical monotone) to the dreamiest lefty (a German idealist argued passionately that developing local energy markets could replace capitalism with a radical grassroots democracy). And of course all spoke impeccable English as a second or third language.

Though mostly in their mid-thirties or younger, these people's achievements were astounding. One had persuaded Greenpeace to fund him and some friends to write a report on green technologies which was so successful that it prompted the World Bank and UN to invite them to present it at their HQs, and the Swedish Government to change their climate policies. Another started a solar panel company in France which now employs 55 people and is growing at around 20% a year. A third started his own investment bank in Lithuania, which is now one of the biggest in the country, and is about to start his Ph.D. All three are the same age as me! Such stories were not exceptional within the group; they were the norm.

Almost competing with the brilliance of the participants were the stunning palace, exquisite and endless food, first-class entertainment and gorgeous weather that hosted our deliberations. Not to mention the beautiful host city itself - wondering through its effortlessly elegant lanes, soaking up the uniquely relaxed, deeply cultured and refreshingly down-to-earth atmosphere, I fell in love with the place.

It would have been easy to feel overwhelmed by such elevated surroundings, but instead I allowed myself to be swept up in the big ideas being thrown around and focussed on trying to keep up with the discussions. However what really made my name within the group was my capacity for sleep deprivation. 

Following an early morning flight I was shattered by the end of the first day, but when our local ringleader demanded we then visit some bars, it didn't take long for the peer-pressure and my own hedonism to get the better of me. I was also fully aware that these informal excursions are often the most valuable part of international networking events. 

After a late night and an early start the next day (BMW wanted to get the most out of us and saw the agenda as a challenge to see how much they could squeeze into each day), I was struggling to stay awake, but found myself out again the next night, with two American tourists and Geoff Mulgan - luminary of British politics, policy, thank-tanks, and now also the international social innovation scene - at Lisbon's most famous club, Lux.

Part-owned by John Malkovic, Lux is an institution. Widely regarded as the best club in Portugal, it effortlessly combines international chic with a come-as-you-are cool. Its large and quirky layout is complemented by huge outdoor spaces and a waterside location offers stunning views across the enormous Rio Tejo. The music is good enough to appease aficionados without being too loud or niche to deny those wishing to chat or dance stupidly. And dance stupidly we did. It was a great night.

I somehow ended up back there the following night, with 15 Forumites in tow. Though it didn't match the surreal appeal of the previous night, it was still good fun. However it did cement my reputation as the hardest party animal of the Forum, being the only person to go out on all three nights. After around 10 hours sleep in three nights I looked and felt like a baggy-eyed zombie, but I managed to stay awake during the discussions, and knew that I'd be able to trade of this hedonistic image for years to come, if I played my cards right.

Of course the discussions themselves were more than mere window-dressing for my nocturnal folly. The Forum topic was 'Social Cohesion Beyond the Nation State', and the three main issues were migration, social investments, and climate change. The Forum was jam-packed with inspirational speeches, innovative discussion formats, and fascinating new ideas, such as the concept of 'social remittances', which are the 'western' ideas (such as entrepreneurialism, or human rights) that migrants send back to their home communities, and have been shown to be a progressive force in developing countries.

Many of the participants were either economists or climate change experts, so there was much talk about financial mechanisms to promote environmental sustainability. It felt as if the people present were well-placed to offer genuine solutions to the issues at hand, and whilst the conversations were very technical and largely over my head, they were invigorating to observe. These discussions were balanced by a field trip to a favela school that struggled badly before being dramatically turned around by an impressive headteacher with stunningly progressive methods.

My four days in Lisbon rewarded me with a head bursting with inspiration, a stack of exciting new contacts, and the prelude to a nasty cold on account of the punishment my body had endured. Luxurious it was, but it left me in desperate need of a holiday.

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.

Race, space and dying well

The third module of the intercultural navigators programme took me to Leicester. Why Leicester? Because next year it is projected to become the first city in the UK where the majority (i.e. white British) population will be in the minority, making it a test case for 'multiculturalism'.

We learnt about the roots of the concept of multiculturalism - 1960s Canada where the rapid influx of economic migrants forced government and academia to consider the new arrivals' impact on the wider society. We then deconstructed it's meaning and connotations, comparing it to 'multiethnicity' (which is what most people really mean when they use multicultural, as they refer not to customs and habits but ethnicity), the new vogue term, 'diversity' and its ideal outcome, 'community integration'.

We also had some fascinating discussions with two local policeman and a community cohesion officer from the local council, however these were somewhat eclipsed by the heated and heartfelt discussions that they prompted after they left. Of the three visitors, one was white, one was Asian, and one was black - incidentally all were male, highlighting another axis of inequality that's been a running theme for us - and some in the group felt that the dynamics between the visitors, and between the visitors and the group, exhibited an unspoken and underlying racial tension. It all boiled down to people from minorities sometimes feeling that they don't have the right to speak.

The comment brought interesting reactions: I along with many in the room (which was, predictably, mostly white) became instinctively defensive, however as the discussion progressed I realised that an important point had been made: that I - a white, middle class male - must accept that others may feel discriminated at times, even though I can't see it, and only by being sensitive to that can I hope to understand and help people overcome it. It wasn't about me (or anyone else) being racist, but someone taking the brave step of sharing a very personal insecurity that resonates with people from minorities around the world (it did with me when I represented an ethnic minority in Africa), and underpins so many of the challenges that modern, diverse societies face.

We also compared different views towards nationalism. Many of our group had just returned from international conferences where they had met with intercultural navigators from the other participating countries (most of them in Central and Eastern Europe), and noted the strong sense of nationalism that their peers from the new EU member states felt. The only country that was more nationalist was Ukraine, which is still in the EU's waiting room. By contrast the Brits and the Scandinavians had felt uncomfortable (as I do) discussing and enacting their national culture. This was described as 'post-nation statism', a label that struck a chord with me.

The venue for these intense discussions was, bizarrely, the National Space Centre, which is located on a bleak industrial estate on the outskirts of Leicester. Approaching on the dundering local bus, we suddenly saw an enormous transparent beehive rising from the cracked car parks and crumbling warehouses around us. As we got closer we saw that it housed two NASA rockets.

Initially I thought it slightly surreal but ultimately pointless that such a venue had been chosen. I'd never really been interested in space. But we were given an hour to wonder around the exhibits on the second day, and I soon shed my cynicism and was running around as giddily as the primary school kids that frantic teachers were trying in vain to control. There were all sorts of red buttons for me to push and simulations to experience, but my favourite part was footage showing astronauts larking about on the moon. Some of them were skipping along, enjoying the reduced gravity; one was whacking golf balls as hard as he could; another was struggling to lift machinery and flailing around as if a wearing giant sumo outfit on a budget gameshow. It looked like a lot of fun.

The most memorable exhibit was a series of astronaut profiles. Being among the most competitive professions in the world one would expect the chosen few to be high-calibre individuals, but there was one, Kalpana Chawla, who caught my attention. Predictably she was an outstanding scientist, and a dedicated servant to NASA, but unlike the others profiled who listed hobbies such as 'winter sports' and 'scuba diving', her hobby was aerobatic flying. She was the first Indian woman in space in 1997, and though one of her experiments went badly wrong, a five month investigation found that a technical error was responsible, and she was fully exonerated. This meant that she would be able to return to space, which she did in 2003, however following a successful mission her space shuttle disintegrated upon re-entering the atmosphere.

I was surprised by how much it affected me, and in the week since I read it the tragedy of her (and her six crew mates) dramatic death has stayed with me. There are many themes to draw from her extraordinary life and death - how great that an Indian woman could achieve so much, but how much easier would it have been were she a white American man; why did NASA not allow the astronauts to repair the damaged insulation before it cost the crew their lives - but I've focussed on the simple story of a person doing something that she wanted to, despite the clear risk to her life. It's been said that those who aren't willing to die for something, will fall for anything. I'm not sure I want anything enough to risk that much, but then I am only young.

Kosovo - revisited

You can tell from the passengers on the plane that this is not a normal destination. The functional, smart-casual clothes and Americanised English gave the majority of them away as 'internationals' - foreigners working for the various international organisations and multilateral institutions. The rest of the plane was filled with uniformed soldiers (Danish), a sprinkling of brave backpackers, and Kosovan expats in headscarves and flat caps. (My politically incorrect colleague expressed amusement at seeing 'farmers' in planes.)

Kosovo is a truly bewildering and fascinating place. Having been there a few weeks previously, it was nice to come back and learn a bit more about the world's youngest state.


Kosovo's independence monument

It is a place of stark contradictions: deep in an apparently intractable political quagmire, yet its capital, Pristina, exhibits an incredible dynamism and energy. People are extremely friendly, warm and open, and yet I sensed a very dark underbelly to Kosovan society, confirmed by a tale of a friend of a friend - an international - who whilst worked establishing the telecoms network following the war was spied upon and had her flat repeatedly burgled. She had lived happily in Beirut, but (understandably) couldn't handle Pristina, and left without seeing out her contract.

Kosovo, and especially Pristina, is like a Disneyland of bizarre new buildings, lending the place a surreal air. The road between the airport and Pristina is dotted with endless petrol stations and brand new, stand-alone furniture shops, with barely any stock and no customers. Foreign aid (and its illicit mistress, rampant corruption) have led to building frenzy, with little thought on their actual use. Old buildings are very hard to find in Pristina, and where they do stand they feel out of context, not least because the street level often comes halfway up the first floor.

Then there's the enormous presence of the internationals. Kosovo is a who's who of multilateral organisations. (The same un-PC colleague described it as 'Africa without blacks'.) The country's graced by the presence of UNHCR, UNDP, EU, OECD, NATO, as well as just about every international NGO, not to mention the controversial NATO force in Kosovo, K-FOR. The OECDs modern skyscraper office is such a landmark that it's proudly displayed on postcards.

The presence of so many internationals mean there are lots of very good restaurants and high-end shops in Pristina. Kosovo is one of Europe's poorest countries, but these restaurants are a haven for foreigners and wealthy locals. The conversations I overheard there were all in impeccable but clearly non-native English.

At the end of our first day's work our local partner in Kosovo, Ertjan, drove us out of the city to Germia park: the long, lush park that snakes out of the city centre to a high peak a few miles out of town. Ertjan is understandably proud of the beautiful park, though he noted with scorn that the numerous new houses scarring the pristine environment were illegal buildings. Apparently most are owned by members of government, who have no trouble in securing the necessary permissions to get away with it. Under the Serb control this never happened.

The park bore witness to the Serb's last stand in Kosovo, as the peak's panoramic views made it an obvious choice for the Serb army's command base. It also made it an easy target for the NATO forces in '99, and there are still huge craters there testifying to the size of the bombs dropped. Near the crater I saw a modest yellow sign denoting a landmine. It was the first such sign I'd ever seen and in my enthusiasm I almost bounded over to have a closer look.



The work itself went very well. Our two-day training workshop passed off successfully, despite the angry dwarf who burst in near the end to denounce virtually everyone as either corrupt, stupid or fascist. The conference we held on the final day, which aimed to strengthen the relationship between civil society and government, was a tempestuous affair, with the government representatives getting a rough ride. They responded fairly well, and I almost felt sorry for them, until I later learned that they had been guilty of a cynical piece of spin: they'd decried a recent protest in which the protesters had killed chickens by 'smashing them on the concrete' outside parliament; I later found out that actually the protesters had released 120 chickens (one for each MP in the Kosovan parliament) into the parliamentary gardens, only for them to be exterminated by government-hired pest controllers. It was a bizarre and fitting twist at the end of my brief visit.

Montenegro - redux

Just spent another five days in Montenegro - the surreal, three-year-old micro state between Croatia and Albania - running civil society development events, and it's been an interesting few days.

I flew out on my birthday, along with three senior colleagues. I managed to shake them off in order to chat with a beautiful Aussie woman on our flight. Turned out she works on private yachts as a chef, cooking for the super-rich and their guests on luxury boats. She'd just finished five months cruising the Bahamas and was about to spend another five among the Greek islands. 'Sounds incredible' I said. 'It is', she replied. 'Must pay badly', I said. 'Actually it pays really well, plus there's no tax and no living costs', she replied... I considered changing career.

The hotel were we stayed, and the events were held, is an enormous Spanish-run all-inclusive resort, of the kind one would expect to find (but probably hope to avoid) in somewhere like Torremolinos. It's got an incredible location, in the corner of a stunning bay, ringed by high mountains and right on the beach. But the place had a prison-ish vibe: it has three buildings referred to blocks A, B and C; we were shackled in irremovable plastic bracelets as we checked in to prove our mighty full-package status and claim our free drinks (in plastic cups); and we had to eat when and what we were told. The food was atrocious re-heated buffet style. The chips tasked like cold cardboard and the stews were clearly drawn from the back of the fridge with a mop before being microwaved.

The music was also torturous. They'd clearly got the DJ from Guantanamo Bay. There were just four CDs to choose from in the main pool/bar area that formed the resorts centrepiece the least bad was a Michael Jackson compilation. But not the good stuff. Tunes like 'Earthsong', which I must have heard four or five times during my first afternoon. When I asked the bartender what he was playing at, he replied that he too would not choose such bile, but it was hotel policy to give the elderly and tone-deaf customers what they wanted: nice, pleasant, inoffensive love songs.

The most amusing thing about the place was the sorry looking staff's uniforms: bright yellow waistcoats with blue and white shirts, and a blue bow tie with the company's horrible yellow star logo on each drooping side. I could see the staff cringe as they wore this cross between Butlins and smurfland outfit, and I cringed with them. And sniggered a bit.

Of course I wasn't there to moan about the food or laugh at the uniforms, but to develop civil society in order to hasten the country's accession to the EU. Easy. Well although that's the sort of grandiose claims we were forced to make when writing the project application, in reality we had much more modest ambitions: to train 20 or so NGO leaders in how to make their organisations more sustainable, and then to hold a conference gathering people from NGOs, government, and the European Commission.

It all went surprisingly well. And although we had to work in a windowless conference suite while the sun shone over an area of stunning natural beauty outside, it was made much more pleasant by the fact that Montenegrins are famously relaxed (i.e. lazy) and refuse to work after 3pm, giving us all the best part of the afternoon to enjoy the sun and the cocktails we could order by waving our stupid bracelets at the friendly but absurdly dressed waiters.

After the second day I went to speak to a group of participants who were well into their third cocktails of the afternoon, and one of them tipsily asked me my age. '26' I replied. 'Oh, I thought you were 18 [giggles all round]'. (I heard from our local partner later on that a few participants thought I was too young to be running the event, tempting me into a complex). I smiled serenely (and soberly), and walked away. But later in the day I got my revenge as the teaser - who turned out to be just 20 - asked her friend to tell me to take her for a moonlit walk. I politely declined, using the speech I had to give the next day as an excuse.

The speech started with me explaining what my organisation does, but before doing so I clarified to the audience that although I may not look it, I was old enough to drink alcohol, so if they saw me doing so after the conference they needn't worry. After all it is a young country - what were they complaining about?