The Symposium

were Catholics, the Serbs Orthodox and that the Muslims were... well,
Muslims. ‘Of course that,' I added. 'The Croats and Muslims are just
Serbs who betrayed the religion of their forefathers (at which point I
cast a glance at Dr. Jurić-Frankopan in the first row who raised an eye-
brow – the left one). They all speak mutually intelligible languages but
they call them, of course, by different names.' I then drew a very helpful
parallel with the Indian sub-continent and the Urdu, Pashto and Guja-
rati languages that I illustrated with some sexually explicit but cultural
imagery from the latest edition of the Kamasutra recently published
in Sweden (I asked my doctoral student for the Ramayana but she...).
Furthermore, both the Croats and the Serbs claim Nikola Tesla, the
great scientist. Well, Tesla, assert the Serbs, comes in a package with
Gavrilo Princip (assassinated Franz Ferdinand in 1914). I spoke about
the two scripts, Latin and Cyrillic and concluded by advocating the
introduction of a Balkan ministry for politically correct speech and
thoughts. A civilizational landmark, I explained.
It was an unmitigated success. The audience was left speechless.
They couldn’t even bring themselves to applaud. Stunned and breath-
less they were, but I expected such a reaction for it happened to me
before, at the symposia in Youghal and Zonguldak, for instance. I am
so fond of challenges and surprises and I like to plant unusual ideas
in people’s souls and minds, to twist their perceptions and distort the
views. Oh yes, they were shocked by my Cross Cultural Competence,
the Riddle of the Balkans, Nikola Tesla and Gavrilo Princip in the
XXI Century presentation. I then sat and enjoyed with a barely de-
tectible smile the contribution of Hieronimus van der Schniedlikke.
It wasn’t nearly as colourful and sharp as mine. The audience had to
ask him lots of questions at the end for obviously, he hadn’t been pre-
cise enough. My presentation, for instance, was so self-contained and
straightforward that there was absolutely no need for questions. And
indeed, there had been no questions.

After a most successful day of presentations as well as formal and
informal discussions, the symposium party walked to the HP hotel
where everyone was staying anyway. As we entered the hotel lobby I
made a wide theatrical gesture and invited everyone for a drink at the
hotel bar. They all cheerfully agreed. They would go to their rooms to
change and come down. Even Professor DaSilva. Good, very good, I
thought, I am too thirsty right now and I’m going to have my cerveza
immediately.
I went to the bar, ordered a beer and sat at a table. As soon as I
emptied my glass Günter appeared all smiles in the company of van
der Schniedlikke, Françoise Guillot and Professor DaSilva. The most
important members of our little inter-cultural community were here!
Garikoitz was missing, true, but he must be busy with the organiza-
tion of the dinner. I waited so long for this moment. I can now finally
put on public display all of the rich Balkan multi-cultural heritage and
convivial lifestyle. Subtly though, very subtly for in the Balkans we
have developed very effective and articulate approaches to cross-cul-
tural communication completely unchartered in the sterile Western
cultures.
I waved and they approached my table. 'Please take a seat,' I said
and before they could even contemplate starting a conversation, I of-
fered to buy them a drink.
'What would you like, Madame Guillot?' I said.
'Oh, please, call me Françoise. Please!'
'Of course, Françoise, what would you like to drink? A glass of
wine, a double whisky on the rocks perhaps? They have nice single
malts I saw earlier...'
'No, I don't drink alcohol. Thank you. A glass of water will be fine.'
The others settled for a beer and as I ordered four jarras (the largest
beer container available in Spain), they all expressed deep gratitude
and worry that they wouldn't be able to drink so much beer.
'Živeli,' I cried with my jug of beer raised high in the air and every-
one concurred. We all drank to the great success of the symposium
and pledged wholeheartedly to meet again next year in Tampere.
I downed my beer in one mighty gulp and dropped the jug on the
table with a thud and a smile. I then noticed that everyone looked per-
plexed, with eyes full of admiration. Günter had only managed one sip,
van der Schniedlikke maybe two while Professor DaSilva had traces
of foam left on his upper lip and the tip of the nose. Françoise Guillot
only managed a tiny sip of the mineral water. I stood up from the table
and announced with a solemn posture that the round was on me.
'I will see you shortly,' I said and as I was exiting the bar I asked
the barman to put the drinks on my room number, 'Cuatro-uno-siete!'
I went to my room, had a shower, trimmed my beard and put a
handful of gel in my hair, took a clean shirt and polished my shoes. I
was ready to conclude this formidably successful day with a dinner in
a typical Basque restaurant (Garikoitz promised).

The next morning I got up early with a terrible, wine-induced head-
ache. I swallowed a couple of Ibuprofens, two multivitamin tablets,
my gout remedy and an allergy pill. I packed my bags and headed to
breakfast. It somehow happened that all the tables were busy and that
my colleagues were sitting at small tables for two so I had to eat break-
fast on my own. How lucky for me, I thought. I had enough of listen-
ing to all the colleagues praising highly and utterly uncritically their
own work and inter-cultural competence. After breakfast, I went to
my room, collected the bags and went to the reception to settle my bill.
I saw Günter in the queue in front of me. Once he completed the for-
malities he turned. We shook hands and wished each other a safe trip
home and expressed the hope we would meet in Tampere. Günter went
out of the hotel revolving door and I approached the counter. 'Uno-
cuatro-siete, por favor,' I said and saw Günter talking to a taxi driver.
He didn't even thank me for last night's drink, I thought. 'Never mind,
I made my point.'
'Your bill please,' said the receptionist and I looked at the piece
of paper he put on the counter in front of me. I checked the list and
thought it was fine... But no, it wasn’t fine at all!
'Hang on,’ I said grabbing the receptionist’s sleeve. ‘Where are last
night's drinks?'
‘Drinks?' said the receptionist.
'Yes, cervezas! We had four jarras and I asked the bartender to put
everything on my room number − cuatro-uno-siete!'
'Ah, those,' said the receptionist, 'The señor who was just here paid
for the drinks!'
'What?' I cried and survived a minor heart attack. 'Günter?'
'Yes,’ he said with a broad Spanish smile. ‘There was probably a
mix-up with room numbers as his was cuatro-uno-seis, but he said he
was quite happy to pay for the drinks!'
I dropped my documents, papers and glasses on the counter and
raced towards the revolving door where an old American witch's suit-
case got stuck and... I ran down the stairs and reached the pavement
just in time to see the taxi leaving. I ran, waved and cried out loud:
'Günter, the beers!'
I am not sure if Günter heard me. Anyway, I saw him turning and
grinning (smiling?). He waved back. I ran even faster waiving a twenty
Euros bill in the air but the streetlight turned green and the car sped
away. Günter waved once more and the car turned around the corner.
He was gone.
Tampere, I thought, while trying to put under control my heavy
breathing. I have to wait a whole year! But I have a plan. Yes, I have a
very good plan. I will get to Finland a day early, buy a case of Cham-
pagne (to show some class) and summon a five-piece gypsy brass band.
I will then wait for Günter in the hotel lobby. Yes, I'll do that. I bet he
will be surprised. The eternal Balkan spirit, our open mind and be-
nevolent soul shall prevail over the insensitive, decadent and selfish
Western materialism. Tampere 2016, here I come!