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Lawrie McFarlane: How ambassadors became cab drivers

I recall, when I first joined government, my fondest ambition was to be an ambassador. Not that I possessed, then or now, the slightest hint of diplomatic leanings.

I recall, when I first joined government, my fondest ambition was to be an ambassador. Not that I possessed, then or now, the slightest hint of diplomatic leanings. But I was attracted to the sense of glamour and intrigue that I imagined came with the job. Wrong.

For two years in the late 1980s, I was attached (at the end of a very long rope) to the GATT negotiations in Geneva. Our federal government wished no part of me — I was there to lobby for the Prairie grain and beef industries that wanted European tariffs lifted. At the time, I calculated you could fly live cattle from Alberta to Switzerland on the Concorde, and retail the meat cheaper than it sold for on the Continent.

Unfortunately, Canada’s ambassador at the negotiations was firmly in Quebec’s pocket, not by instinct or ideology, but because that province had sent a representative to the preceding round of talks, and persuaded our embassy to support “supply management.” That means tariffs to protect the Quebec dairy industry.

Diplomacy may be a subtle discipline, but it’s a stretch to argue for elimination of tariffs on grain and beef, while erecting tariffs on foreign butter, though our diplomats gamely tried.

Anyhow, Ottawa decreed that I could come, but I had to live in Zürich, believed to be a safe 120 kilometres away. My wife and young daughter came along, and we lived in Küssnacht — a suburb of Zürich (the name means “night kiss”).

Getting to the point, I drove to Brussels to meet the premier of Saskatchewan, Grant Devine, then on layover at the airport. Though it was the early hours of the morning, our ambassador was there, and it was then the scales fell away.

This fine gentleman welcomed Devine at the exit gate, took his luggage in both hands, and walked him to his car. From there he drove the premier to a hotel, carted the bags inside, and saw him safely checked in.

The next evening the ambassador held a reception at his house, and introduced Devine — premier of one of the smaller provinces — to the local notables. (I was to meet the same crowd at every reception over the following two years. It was as if they had nothing better to do.)

In short, our ambassador was a glorified tour guide, his daily grind no more exotic than a taxi driver’s, but without the tips.

Several amusing incidents followed. Devine was taken to a French restaurant in Brussels, and ordered “Steak Western.” I swear this was Gallic mischief-making, for the meal, when it arrived, consisted of ground up raw meat (quite possibly horse meat) with a raw egg on top.

Devine was apoplectic (as he had every right to be). “This isn’t western steak,” he protested. The waiter damn well knew that, but in the style of French waiters, shrugged his shoulders.

(An aside. My French is lousy and my German not much better. But while I was consistently corrected in French restaurants — “Non, monsieur, c’est “le,” pas “la” — I had nothing but praise from German speakers.

A further embarrassing moment. A member of Devine’s cabinet accompanied him. This salt-of-the-earth guy nearly caused an international incident.

He ordered Vichyssoise, and when it arrived, sputtered loudly that his soup was cold. But not as cold as the looks from staff and guests at this unwanted demonstration of what they took to be the inbred philistinism of non-Gallic races.

I’m being a little unfair. When we attended a reception in Bonn, the Canadian ambassador’s wife arranged for a gaggle of small kids to play with our little daughter who nearly died of boredom at these events (as did I). That was a kind thought.

But it reinforces the conclusion that the life of an ambassador is not the high-flying existence I had imagined. Perhaps it once was.

In the days before electronic communications, an embassy head was truly the man on the spot (and they were all men). But with the introduction of fax machines and email, ambassadors are now largely office boys.

And just as well, perhaps. It can be argued that the first Gulf War and the Falkland Islands War were both caused, in part, by foreign office staffers who allowed Saddam Hussein and General Leopoldo Galtieri, respectively, to believe their invasions would go unopposed.

They would have given better service driving taxis.

jalmcfarlane@shaw.ca

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