writingbrussels

Image courtesy of Edinburgh Europa Institute

From the outset, Papotis had struck George as a very singular chap. And George came to have plenty of reason for believing his first impressions.

George felt he knew Greek people well: he’d had several close acquaintances with Greeks at Cambridge. He admired their open-hearted and earnest attitude and had even visited his friend Ioannis in Thessaloniki in the summer of 1978 on an Inter-rail trip round Europe.

But Papotis was different.

Arrogant. Outspoken. And downright rude.

The first time George saw Papotis at work was in a technical working group on the colour scheme of the Euro notes, which Papotis had been allowed to chair. His head of department reckoned the discussion would take months, if not years, and that, anyway, the Directors of the National Banks would weigh in at the end to make the final decision.

Papotis had met George by chance one day in the cafeteria and had let drop – George would later come to realise that, in fact, he had boasted – that he was chairing a technical meeting the following week.

“Would you like to come along to my technical group?”, Papotis had asked, with an air of superiority.

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Image courtesy of Truus, Bob & Jan too!

Even so, it wasn’t just a few brushes with some prickly characters, in his first weeks at the European Regulatory Authority, that put George on edge.

Before he had opportunity to meet other colleagues, who he would later come to consider as friends, and had the chance to appreciate aspects of the ways of working, which he would in time find to be part of parcel of the robustness of the EU institutions, George had become quite alarmed by the archaic nature of some of the working practices he encountered.

What’s more, they were features of the work he’d never dreamed it was necessary to warn himself about when asked in the interview if he had any questions himself.

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Image courtesy of sarahschlitz.be

It took George some time, after his arrival in the EU Regulatory Authority, to put enough space between himself and the most unsettling aspects of his first six months in the organisation.

“The administrative equivalent of a raw army recruit being shoved by the drill sergeant under a freezing cold shower,” commented George, with a wry smile, as he quaffed his glass of port at his 10^th Anniversary Reunion of graduates from King’s College.

“It must be such a wheeze with all those brilliant Eurocrats,” quipped Clarkson, one of his cruder former college mates.

“All that ducking and weaving between the wants and why-fores of the member countries!”

George had often noted that, in the British context, there was no strict correlation between level of formal education and an understanding of the role of the European civil service in policymaking.

At least Clarkson wasn’t showing the typical scorn so many other of his compatriots did: maybe it was the heart-warming effect of the vintage port that was taking the edge of his sarcasm.

“Don’t knock it, Clarkson! If it wasn’t for Europe, you wouldn’t have your glass full of this luscious stuff!” George bantered back, raising his glass and tipping back the last swig.

“Wheeze is not exactly how I would describe it,” George was thinking to himself.

Rough start. Roller coaster. Wild, were the words that came to mind.

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