EU opts for feebleness

European leaders have decided, with their choice of two nonentities as the EU’s figureheads, that they do not want the union to be a serious player on the world stage. To those who had hoped for more ambition, this was disappointing. It had been said that the relative importance of the two posts would be determined by the personalities who first held them. The choices that were finally made seem to reflect a determination by EU leaders to keep the EU, as such, subordinate to the national vanities of members states. Eurosceptics who want EU institutions to have as little content as possible have reason to be pleased.

In one crucial respect the new set-up will be a relief. Among all the media comments about how low-profile the two new top figures are, at least everyone seems to agree that they are competent. That will make a welcome change from the embarrassment of having the oaf Javier Solana as the face of the Common European foreign and security policy. Having been NATO Secretary General, he actually did have an international profile of sorts. It just goes to show that an impressive-looking CV can mean very little. It is quite possible to have done a string of responsible jobs, giving the appearance of great experience, but to have done them all badly.

Behind the EU’s latest choices is the reality that the union’s big countries still want to conduct foreign policy themselves on all the issues that count. Paris, London and Berlin never allowed Solana to take a significant role on any important issue, such as Middle East policy, for example, or Turkey. Solana was left to pick up the crumbs that national governments did not care much about, notably ex-Yugoslavia. Perhaps Solana will be best remembered for his doomed efforts to stave of Montenegrin independence, pressurising Podgorica to join a re-formed, very loose, unworkable union with Serbia dubbed “Solania” by Balkan wags.

But the shame is that a Europe that is no more than the sum of its member-state parts has persistently failed to count in the international big league as it could. It is not only in the Balkans that the EU continues to be ineffective, its significant resources not matched by political clout. During the growing crisis that preceded the Russian invasion of Georgia we had the spectacle of the Foreign Minister of Slovenia, supported by the Baltic states, attempting a diplomatic intervention, to the hardly disguised irritation of the bigger European states. That the EU appeared to do better a little later, when the invasion came, was because by then a big EU country, France, headed by an energetic president, led the European efforts. The episode actually demonstrated again that in foreign policy it is not the EU that counts, but that if Europe has any role at all, it is down to its larger members. Even when the EU big beasts, France, Germany and the UK, act jointly, as over Iran’s nuclear programme, their efforts seem to be no more than tolerated by the US for as long as it cannot think of anything more effective.

So most likely the EU will continue to have no effective voice collectively, and the European presence in international affairs will continue to be the small voices of the three largest members, occasionally trying to adopt common positions, and on such occasions annoying all the smaller EU members. And we will have to wait for another big new institutional re-jigging to see whether EU leaders can finally turn the aspiration of EU influence into reality. For the time-being, if there are any more crises in Europe’s backyard, effective action from the EU remains unlikely.

Ottoman Istanbul brought to life

Among the novels I have most enjoyed have been those that evoked a culture, a way of life that has passed into history, a world that is alien to us in the modern West. One outstanding example is Kurban Said’s Ali and Nino, set in the Caucasus before and during the Russian revolution. Like Ali and Nino, Jason Goodwin’s The Janissary Tree is set at a time of turmoil when older, oriental traditions and values are being challenged by new, modern, western ways. Set in Istanbul in the 1830s, it marvellously and convincingly depicts the sights, sounds and smells of the imperial city, from the secret world of the Sultan’s harem to the markets, coffee houses, baths and teeming, bustling streets. From the perfumed maze of the harem, to the foul-smelling tanneries, from the formidable Sultan’s mother, to the transvestite dancers-come-prostitutes of the seedy underbelly of the city, this is an expertly drawn picture of a bygone era.

Goodwin portrays the clash of civilisations, between the old world of the janissaries, the once feared shock troops of the Ottomans, and the new world of western, uniformed soldiers, drilling with booted feet, marching in line. The rich oriental world, with its fabulous colour, its exotic smells, its once glorious triumphs, doomed to failure by the march of modernity against which it can no longer compete.

The novel is more than anything a vehicle for Goodwin, an accomplished historian of the Ottoman Empire and travel writer, to portray the history of the Empire in a different form. The book is an illustration of how fiction can be a particularly powerful means of presenting history, of which Ivo Andrićs masterly The Bridge on the Drina is such a fine example. As a portrayal of Ottoman Istanbul, and of a difficult period in its history, this is a wonderful book.

As a novel, it is not entirely satisfying. The idea of a murder mystery in 1830s Istanbul is wonderful, and the choice of the well-connected, well-informed and well-educated eunuch, Yashim, as the main character, the investigator who unravels the plot, was inspired. However, as a character Yashim is never fully developed, beyond a suppressed anger at his neutered state. A more skilled novelist would have done better, which is why this book does not approach the heights of The Bridge on the Drina. And the denouement is rather rushed, the different strands of the plot not fully drawn together.

But despite those reservations, it is a wonderful, rich and delicious evocation of a world that is no more, a world entirely alien, almost as much, I suspect, to the inhabitants of today’s Istanbul as to a reader in Western Europe. In the West, in Britain or France say, one has a sense of continuity, that the world we live in is the direct descendent of the worlds of our forebears in the nineteenth, eighteenth of seventeenth centuries; that we came from them. But in Turkey, there was a break, or at least a succession of breaks, as modernising Sultans, and finally Ataturk, determinedly tore up the traditions of the past, stamped them out and replaced them with something different, imported. It is hard from our modern perspective even to imagine, let alone grasp that vanished world. The monuments to that age, above all the Topkapı Palace, give us at best a glimpse. Wandering through the gilded rooms of the harem, one can marvel, but not know the world that once existed there. It is so foreign to us as to be incomprehensible. Yet I think Goodwin has done as good a job as is possible of reawakening, in the pages of his novel, the bygone world of the Ottomans.

Lament for Dubrovnik

I find Dubrovnik a depressing place nowadays.

I remember the first time I stepped through the Pile gate into the old city, all those years ago. The main street, Stradun unfolded before me, funnelling down to the clock tower at the far end. The shiny flagstones shimmered in the fading early evening light. The immense city walls towering up on either side. I had never seen a more impressive sight.

I was young then. I sat on the steps climbing up the narrow side streets, overflowing with greenery from the tall houses. The little bars supplied cushions for us youngsters to sit on as we wiled away the carefree nights. It was beautiful.

In daytime, exploring the streets, the palaces, the monasteries, the old harbour, all the little narrow streets, walking the walls, taking the cable car up the mountain above the city, marvelling at the view. The sea lapping at its walls, a blue sky overhead. A city built on the trade between Europe and the Ottoman Empire, one of the greatest summits of European civilisation.

Then there was the war, the destruction, the vandalism of one of Europe’s greatest treasures and the careless slaughter and terrorism of its people, by barbarians. Returning a few years later, Dubrovnik’s charms were no less. The crowds had gone, the city was struggling. But it was still beautiful, and the endurance of the war seemed to have given it an even greater nobility. Dubrovnik was lovely in winter as well. Evenings in the Trubador jazz club, the random punters joining in the jam sessions of Marko and the regulars. Lunches at Kamenica, the oyster bar on the main square, or at Rozarij.

Afternoons on Lokrum, swimming in the clear sea, wandering the island, alone like it was my kingdom, strolling up to the castle at the top, sitting in the botanical garden. Lunch at the restaurant in the ruined monastery, whatever fish had been caught that day, the recommendation of the waiter never failing, washed down with wine, looking out over the garden, with the peacocks, to the sea beyond.

Things started to go wrong when the Lokrum restaurant was taken over from the hotel Argentina by another, lesser hotel. All quality gone, the waiters clueless and uninterested, the beautiful ruin made gaudy.

But still visits to Dubrovnik were delightful. Buying fruit on the market and taking it off to Lokrum, to sit and reflect between dips.

But then the crowds started to increase. And not the exuberant youths, the excited backpackers of 20 years before, staying for a pittance in private accommodation. Now it was the cruise boats, two, four at a time, spewing forth thousands of people for a few hours each day, clogging up the streets, the cafes, not eating, going back to their boats for lunch. The antagonism of the locals, for whom the hoards became nothing more than money fodder, people to be filched, the lowest quality they could get away with, for the highest price. Even the wonderful Kamenica succumbed.

This year I arrived at Dubrovnik in a huge thunderstorm, massive cruise boats towering above the harbour, others standing off at sea. I got out, soaked, as soon as I could, down the coast to Cavtat, still charming, still delightful, the locals still friendly. Lounging on the rocks, soaking up sun, coffee at Zino’s. Evenings on the dreamy terrace, the sea lapping below, figs by the armful. Alas, even Cavtat had its disappointment though. The once wonderful Leut, now with higher prices, the quality gone to pieces. This was the second year it was so. I gave it a second chance, but I will not give it a third. The once beautifully dressed seafood salad now flat and dull. The fried squid, once so crisp and delicate, so perfect, now sloppy and tasting of nothing but the oil in which it was cooked. The house white, once pleasingly fresh and fruity, now lifeless and not even chilled. Perhaps they just don’t care anymore. Perhaps they don’t think they have to. A shame. They had a reputation once. Gerard Depardieu had eaten there, and Misha Saakashvili. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone now.

Dubrovnik has become little more than a commodity to be sold. But it is being devalued. Nevertheless, the walls, the palaces, and somewhere, no doubt, the spirit of the people, the troubadours, is still there. Maybe still in winter.

Partisans in Montenegro

What a pleasure it was to be in Montenegro. Perhaps it is mainly due to familiarity, but I am hugely fond of the place. This year there was a splendid event organised by the UK embassy and the Montenegrin defence ministry. At the village of Brezna, between Nikšić and Plužine, there was a ceremony and the unveiling of a monument to mark an operation in 1944 when the British and other allied air forces rescued around 1,000 wounded Partisans who would otherwise have been slaughtered by the approaching German army. A makeshift airfield was prepared and the wounded evacuated, all in 48 hours. The event included a wonderful exhibition of photographs of the airlift.

An old soldier remembers

The attention given in recent times to the last few, very old, First World War veterans made the presence of a few elderly men who had participated in the events at Brezna in 1944 seem especially poignant. The 88-year old British gentleman who had helped build the airfield was sprightly and clearly delighted to be back and to reminisce. Among those who made speeches was the head of Montenegro's World War II veterans' organisation. He had been not far away during the Brezna operation. Beginning his speech with the nostalgic "Drugovi i drugarice..." ("Comrades" - male and female). He spoke warmly of lasting Montenegrin-British friendship. There were other old partisans there as well. What they achieved was remarkable, and in the midst of a very brutal guerrilla war, this was a humanitarian mission, to save lives. Some other ambassadors were there, including those of Russia and the United States, whose air forces had also participated. The German ambassador was not present. Apparently he did not consider it had been organised in a spirit of reconciliation. It is hard not to conclude that his presence, more than anything, would have helped stress such a spirit. But it is difficult to escape the nature of what had happened. The German army would have killed all those wounded, if they had got the chance. They had already massacred hundreds of innocents in that very area. While appreciating that this event may not have been comfortable for the German ambassador, perhaps on this occasion it was not appropriate for him to criticise the lack of commitment of others to reconciliation. But it was a happy event, and a wonderful recognition of the heroism of those old men.

Rucola or not

I love Rucola (Rocket). One of my favourite things to eat. In Albania recently, I ate it (with parmesan, olive oil and balsamico) until I was almost tired of it. That bitter, peppery taste is delicious. Quite a luxury in England, in the Balkans it is almost as readily available as lettuce.

So it was with pleasure that I awaited my Rucola and parmesan salad at the restaurant Opera, just off the Trg Republike (the main square) in Belgrade, next to the Hotel Majestic, the favoured haunt of British spies in the Yugoslav capital in the couple of years before the Germans invaded the country in 1941. The Opera is supposed to be a good place, but today there was a problem. The Rucola was not Rucola. I noticed at once that the leaves were completely the wrong shape, too wide and rounded. I had a taste to confirm, and indeed, there was none of the trademark herby pepperiness. I signalled to the waiter. I am afraid this is not Rucola. Not Rucola? Yes it is. Our Rucola is like that. What? So Rucola at that restaurant is different from Rucola everywhere else? No, I insisted, it is not. He took the plate away. Moments later the manager came over with the plate. She agreed that it looked unusual for Rucola, and that it did not taste like Rucola. But, she insisted, it was Rucola. They had been buying it from the same man for five years, and he had sold it to them as Rucola. Very patronising. When I still maintained it was not Rucola, she raised her eyebrows and grimaced impatiently, as if I were an idiot. At this point I got cross. This was not Rucola. Whatever her man said, she should know it was not Rucola. I had proper Rucola at that restaurant on a previous occasion. This was something else, possibly spinach. She agreed to take the plate away. At least my pasta dish was OK, but the dessert was a disappointment, a soggy cherry pie with not very good ice cream and, worst of all, they put on the plate some of that sweet, sickly red stuff from a tube, that is supposed to taste like strawberry, and is meant to make ice cream look more colourful for children. Awful.

I had a Rucola salad at Trebeca, near Kalamegdan, the next day, just to check I was not crazy. Hooray! Real Rucola. Confidence restored a little.

Archives in Belgrade

I have been having a nostalgia trip, going back to my old days as a graduate student, working in musty archives, poring through documents of times gone by. The last time I worked in archives in Belgrade was in 1994. Ultimately, it was a reasonably fruitful stay, but my word it didn't come easily. At the Arhiv Jugoslavije (Archive of Yugoslavia) the lady in the reading room was appalled that I had entered the building without handing over my passport (the guard at the entrance had waved me through without asking for it). How could they know who I was? I might be a terrorist. I might have a bomb in my bag. I kept a straight face and offered to let her see the contents of my bag.

But those were not normal times in Belgrade. Walking back to the flat where I was staying, in the elite district of Dedinje, I regularly passed the headquarters of the notorious Arkan, the football hooligan turned secret police agent turned gangster and war criminal, who nevertheless never lost his baby-face. It was scary just to pass the place on the street, with the menacing black-clad security guards standing outside. I just looked straight ahead up the street, avoiding looking directly at them or the building, lengthening my stride and hurrying past. One morning there was the news that one of the guards had shot a man dead in the street as he walked past the building. Apparently he had walked back and forth in front of the building, arousing suspicion. The headline was not that Arkan's men had shot a passer-by (who may well have just been trying to find his way, or else had a fatal curiosity), but rather who was this man? It was a warped country at that time.

I eventually got permission to work in the Arhiv Jugoslavije, with the help of a reference from a local historian. Help from a local contact was also crucial to getting into the Arhiv Josipa Broza Tita (Archive of Josip Broz Tito). Initially I was refused permission. But then a friendly local historian who I had earlier met in London, visiting the archive himself, asked if I had been there. They phoned me to tell me I could use the archive after all. Connections mean everything in the Balkans. At the military archive the junior officer who dealt with me was very friendly, and I received a signed and stamped document confirming that "Comrade Palmer" was granted permission to use the archive.

Fifteen years later, this time things were easier at the Arhiv Jugoslavije (I handed my passport in at the gate, as requested), which had by now taken over the Arhiv Josipa Broza Tita as well. All very friendly, the staff helped me find the documents I was looking for. At the Diplomatic Archive, at the foreign ministry, it was another matter. I should have applied to use the archive well in advance, as the approval of the foreign minister himself was required - excessive, surely.

Researching a visit to Yugoslavia by Brezhnev in 1976, I did not find exactly what I was hoping for. But it was fascinating to see the dynamic between these two "brotherly", yet long-estranged and deeply suspicious old dictators, Brezhnev and Tito. Behind the diplomatic niceties, the talking was tough. The Soviets were upset by the criticisms of the Soviet Union by Yugoslav politicians, writers and journalists. They wanted the use of the Adriatic ports and Yugoslav airports. They were reserved about Yugoslavia's prominent role in the non-aligned movement, with its many non-communist members - hob-knobbing with capitalists. They pressed for direct social contacts between Soviet and Yugoslav organisations, bypassing state and party (an opportunity for infiltration, the Yugoslav side clearly thought). The Yugoslavs, who had a good idea what was coming, rejected the requests and reacted defensively to the complaints about anti-Soviet writings. Tito, who talked happily with Brezhnev about hunting, was short and to the point on substantive matters: this is completely unacceptable; we do not work like that. The middle of the Cold War, Tito played Yugoslavia's hand between East and West firmly and skilfully, but communist or no, he knew that his regime's financial backers were in the West.

Blood feuds

While working in Albania recently I read Ismail Kadare's Broken April. It seemed like a good time to read a novel by Albania's most celebrated writer. It is a fine book, portraying a world, the world of the blood feud, that is utterly alien to modern society with a persuasiveness that only fiction can achieve. Of course, it is abhorrent, bizarre, that families, generation after generation, can have been bound, afflicted by this scourge which often had nothing to do with them personally, its origins lost in the mists of time, beyond the fact of their being trapped in such a diabolical cycle.

Particularly extraordinary is that it still goes on. While reading the book I met the head of an organisation that works to bring about reconciliations among families engaged in feuds. He estimated that some 3,500 people are confined to their homes, unable to leave for fear that the vengeance of the blood feud would be meted on them. It still has its hold. Sentences for murders are longer when they involve a blood feud - as much as 25 years in gaol. Yet young men in remote places are not deterred, accepting the sentence rather than the shame of not having avenged the blood of a family member. The modern state seems hardly to exist for such people, who adhere instead to the older law of the Kanun (code), perhaps the only example of the rules of the blood feud being codified in detail. I was especially amazed when the man told me he recommended, as part of a solution for those caught in the blood feud, that parts of the Kanun should be incorporated into modern Albanian law. The positive elements, he said, referring to sections of the Kanun that deal with reconciliation. The whole thing would be better consigned to the past, a past that was so forcefully portrayed by Kadare.

Beer and mountain huts

I like Zagreb in summer. Half empty, as its inhabitants head off for the coast, it is quiet and peaceful. No problem finding a place to sit outside my favourite cafes. Ice cream at Millenium, and coffee at Pif. Steamily hot, of necessity everything moves at a slower pace.

And there is nice beer to be found in Zagreb. As ever, the micro-brewery whose beers can be found at Mali Medo (Little Bear) on Tkalčićeva street are superb. The find of this stay was Kasačko, a bottled beer from Gospić. In style, it is very similar to many English beers, which must be a good thing, a darkish brown colour, bitter to the taste, very nice. Interestingly, it comes from the same region as the once marvelous Velebitsko, which is sadly not what it was since production was increased. I first tried Velebitsko about ten years ago, when visiting the Plitvica national park, in Lika, a region part-way from Zagreb to the Dalmatian coast. Both its dark and light versions were superb, without exaggerations among the finest beers I have tasted anywhere. It couldn't be found in Zagreb then, but each time I passed by Plitvica I picked up several bottles. Then it changed. Suddenly Velebitsko could be found in many places in Zagreb. It wasn't bad, still among the better beers in Croatia, but nothing like what it had been. What a shame. And now there is Kasačko, also from Gospić, different from and still not quite as good as the old Velibitsko. But it's good to have it.

I have drunk Kasačko twice this trip. Once at Kaptolski Klet, an old-style Zagreb restaurant opposite the cathedral, where pleasant cool breezes waft down from Sljeme on a hot evening. The second time was on Sljeme itself, at the Runolist "Planinarski Dom" (mountain hut, although rather more than a hut). It was a superb lunch at Runolist, confirmed as my favourite "dom" on Sljeme. It had rained heavily one day a week earlier, and was therefore an excellent time for mushrooms. I ate "vrganji" (ceps) in a sauce, with pasta. It was delicious, and a heaped plate for less than five Euros has to be good. There was also their excellent home-made bread, and a sour cherry and apple strudel. All washed down with Kasačko, and in excellent company.

Climbing Sljeme on a Sunday and eating well at the top is such a joy. Somehow everyone seems to leave their troubles behind at the bottom of the mountain, and all are happy, in good spirits. I climbed Sljeme four times in just over a week. It's not the same on weekdays. Fewer people, and not the same as the Sunday regulars. Not everyone observes the custom of greeting people they pass with a friendly "Dobar dan" ("Good day") on weekdays. And the doms don't make such an effort with the food. There was little on offer at Puntijarka on Friday, and the turkey with "mlinci" (a kind of Croatian noodles) I opted for were disgusting - virtually inedible, dried out, probably several days old. I used to like Puntijarka very much, but this was a disgrace. That said, their (freshly made) apple strudel was very good.

Ghosts in Tirana

One of the first observations almost all foreigners seem to make on visiting Tirana is that it's a lot nicer than they expected. And it's true. Tirana is really a rather pleasant town, with nice green spaces, gardens and birdsong, and lots of lively cafes and clubs. It feels odd sitting at my favourite cafe in the Block (the area of central Tirana that used to be closed off by police, reserved for the communist elite), and looking at Enver Hoxha's former villa across the way (his garden is a bit unkempt these days). In this modern, bustling city it is hard to imagine what it can have been like less than two decades ago when the most oppressive communist regime in Europe was still in power. In this very informal country, in which laws are cheerfully disregarded, I often find myself wondering how the communists ever manage to exercise the control they did? It's like the saying about not being able to herd cats. Who could ever have managed to herd Albanians? Well, of course it was fear that did it. Although I suspect that officials, police and people all found little ways of compromising, turning a blind eye and getting around many of the more petty restrictions on their lives.

The pyramid, Tirana

But in the midst of this modern Mediterranean city there are reminders, ghosts of times past. Not just Hoxha's house. There is also the pyramid, a dilapidated, decaying building on the main boulevard in the city centre, designed by Hoxha's daughter as a museum to her vile father. Now it is crumbling, no longer a museum, although still in use. It's an ugly building. No doubt it will be torn down one day, like the statue of the dictator that used to stand on Skenderbeg Square. I was amused one evening to notice some young boys on the top of it, breaking bits off and throwing them to the ground. Vandals with taste.

For me, perhaps the most ghostly building is the Hotel Dajti, just along the boulevard from the pyramid. Once the one hotel in town where foreign visitors stayed, now an eerie, empty building, still standing while the ownership of the land it stands on is disputed. Some of the windows are shuttered, others are broken, and still others are wide open, as if the rooms are being aired for new guests. I was told that some foreign visitors to Tirana in the 1990s stayed in Hoxha's house, then a hotel, and found that they could not sleep. Was there a presence in the house still? I think the Hotel Dajti may be haunted as well.

Another ghostly reminder is at the factory at Kombinat, a suburb of Tirana built around a big factory. The factory itself is rather extraordinary. In rigidly atheist, communist Albania, the entrance looks very much like a religious building, perhaps a monastery. I think it must have been conscious, a factory as the new place of worship in the new, secular world of the proletariat. In the square outside the gate is a plinth on which once stood a statue of Stalin, plastered in campaign posters for the forthcoming parliamentary election when I visited - a much more fitting purpose.

I like Albania. Seeing a place where so much progress has been made from such an unpromising starting-point gives me hope. The ghosts are still there, but they're faded, lost, out of place in the much brighter new Albania. They shouldn't be forgotten, but they're no longer scary.

Pimms in short supply

This evening I went to the Queen's Birthday bash in Tirana. I always feel a little embarrassed on these occasions. Other countries have national days, but we don't have one of those. Just the Queen's birthday, which isn't even her birthday.

But this evening I was especially embarrassed. Usually, a Queen's Birthday do is at least a bit of fun. Often in the garden of HM Ambassador's residence, with lots of food and plenty of booze. A good excuse to slurp and cavort with international officials, and local politicians and others, not all of whom are altogether awful. But this time all I managed to lay my hand on was one measly glass of Pimms (rather well-mixed, alcoholic Pimms, but still), and a few rather sad canapes. And this is Albania, the land where hospitality is sacred. I've been to rather a lot of diplomatic receptions over the years, which is probably a sad reflection on the life I lead. The most important criteria for judging them are the quality and the quantity of the food and the booze. The best ones I've been to have been by the Spanish (very generous) and the Russians (caviar and vodka). But the Brits were generally pretty good. I suppose the stinginess this year in Albania is down to the belt-tightening of the financial crisis, which I suppose is reasonable. British taxpayers could reasonably ask why their money should be spent on the revelling of people like me. There wasn't even a band. Every other year I've been to one of these events there's been a band, or at least some buglers, or pipers (if the ambassador's a Scot). This time we had a recording of "God Save the Queen".

Even if taxpayers might reasonably be spared the expense of my Pimms, I couldn't help feeling a little ashamed. To me this evening spoke of a country without pretensions even to be second-rate. We should be able to do better.