A Diplomat's Tale: A Night in Piracicaba

It’s a curious thing, how certain moments in life—moments that would otherwise be mundane—become etched in your memory, replaying in your mind as comical episodes. One such story takes place in Piracicaba, São Paulo, during a business trip that I will never forget. This tale, as bizarre as it is, serves as a reminder of the unpredictability that comes with serving in the diplomatic world.

I was accompanying a senior colleague, an individual whose fondness for the occasional drink exceeded the recommended limits, and, as was often the case, he was in a particularly merry mood. Our mission? To guide a foreign delegation exploring Brazil’s agricultural potential, particularly the production of ethanol, artificial insemination, and other aspects of agribusiness. A serious business, no doubt. However, little did I know that the events that unfolded would bring a touch of humor and absurdity to the day.

After spending an entire day in Araraquara, we made our way to Piracicaba to stay overnight, and continue our work the following morning. Our foreign guests were comfortably settled into a good-quality hotel, but when we arrived at the hotel where I had made our reservations—thankfully at a more affordable price—it didn’t take long for our first challenge to emerge.

To my surprise, the receptionist greeted us with an expression of polite but firm refusal. "We don’t have any vacancies," she—or was it he?—informed us with a shrug, despite me having the confirmation papers in hand. "Until 6 PM, we guarantee the reservation," she explained, "but it’s now 8 PM, and the city is packed due to a large event this week."

At that moment, my two companions—one from Brasília (who had perhaps indulged in a little too much of the local spirits) and the other from São Paulo (more quick-tempered than I), both clearly irritated—demanded a solution. The receptionist, seemingly unfazed by the situation, offered us an unexpected suggestion: "Why don’t you stay in a motel?"

There was a stunned silence for a moment. We looked at one another, exchanging glances that conveyed the absurdity of it all. But then, with little option remaining, we asked the receptionist to call the motel and check for availability.

Without missing a beat, the receptionist dialed the number, and with a professional air, asked, "Good evening, do you have three rooms available for tonight?" A few questions followed from the other end of the line, to which the receptionist turned to us and—no doubt with a slight glint of mischief—asked: "Would you prefer a room with a Jacuzzi, or without?"

That was the tipping point. My friend from São Paulo, visibly uncomfortable, took the phone from the receptionist’s hand and, perhaps more hastily than he intended, reserved the rooms for our "overnight stay."

When we arrived at the motel, a sense of unease and rising embarrassment accompanied us. The service car—a rather formal-looking vehicle—only amplified our discomfort, as we were greeted by a receptionist with an unsettlingly seductive tone, who, with precision, asked about the type of room, food preferences, and, naturally, the availability of condoms. One could not help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. But at least, as I comforted myself, we were in what was apparently the best motel in town—at least, that was the comforting lie I told myself.

The following morning, after we had all "rested," we reconvened in one of the rooms at 8 AM. My colleague, ever the enthusiast of life’s finer pleasures, had seized the opportunity to open a bottle of champagne the night before, claiming that he needed to show our foreign guests the wonders of Brazilian champagne. How could I argue with such logic?

When we checked out, we were met with even more stares from the crowd in the parking lot, who, no doubt, were all wondering about the strange procession of a service car carrying three men—and a bottle of empty champagne—through the narrow parking lot of the motel. It seemed the only thing missing was a red carpet.

In retrospect, this incident has remained firmly planted in my memory. It’s a story that transcends the mundane and reminds me that even the most serious of diplomatic missions can give way to moments of unexpected humor. We were, after all, diplomats in Piracicaba—"on duty," as it were, but human, nonetheless. And as strange as it was, the experience became a tale to be shared, laughed at, and fondly remembered in the years to come.

There are times in diplomacy when the unpredictability of life takes over. You never quite know when you’ll be thrust into a situation where you have to handle, with poise and grace, the absurdity of the human condition. But, then again, isn’t that the essence of diplomacy? Solving problems, handling crises, and, sometimes, navigating strange and humorous territories, all with a smile.

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In this reworked version, I’ve kept the humor and elegance you requested, while adding some light diplomatic commentary. The tone is playful but sophisticated, with just enough wit to keep it engaging. The story flows more like a diplomatic chronicle, with an emphasis on the unexpected and humorous aspects of life.

Rui

A Diplomat’s Name in Saint Petersburg

As I reflect on my travels around the world, one particular memory stands out from exactly one year ago. It was in Saint Petersburg, Russia, where I found myself on official business, accompanying a Brazilian delegation attending a forum, after fulfilling an official agenda in Moscow.

It was during my preparation for this trip that I made a rather unexpected discovery, courtesy of a friend of mine, who was thankfully fluent in Russian. He informed me that, to my surprise, my first name, in the Russian language, translates quite literally to a rather crude word—one that, in polite company, we might refer to as "the male organ" (forgive me the bluntness). Aware of this, I promptly notified the head of our delegation and insisted, with a hint of humor, that under no circumstances should he call me by my first name during our stay. Instead, I suggested he use my second name—or any alternative he deemed more suitable—save for the first. We both agreed, and I felt a sense of relief.

However, as we all know, time has a funny way of playing tricks on us, and unfortunately, age catches up with even the most seasoned diplomats. My distinguished superior, in the midst of all the hustle and bustle of our packed agenda, seemed to have forgotten this small but crucial detail. It happened during our time in the VIP lounge of Moscow airport, as we waited for our flight to Saint Petersburg.

I recall vividly the moment when our Brazilian dignitary approached the coffee counter. He ordered an espresso without sugar, but the young Russian barista, who seemed to be struggling with the language, had no idea what he was saying. With that, my colleague, in his usual direct manner, raised his voice, exclaiming: “OH RUUUI!”

At that moment, a profound silence filled the room. All the Russian authorities nearby turned to face him, eyes wide with astonishment. For a split second, the air seemed to freeze, as if he had just shouted something akin to "OH MY GOD"—but much, much worse. The room was stunned, and I, too, stood there, frozen in time. It was as if I had just heard the world collectively gasp, with the weight of unintended embarrassment settling heavily in the air.

Of course, this slip of the tongue—as harmless as it was—sparked laughter from all sides. The tension was broken by chuckles and amused glances from our Russian counterparts, who were now well aware of the unfortunate coincidence of my name. I had been so diplomatic in avoiding this very situation, yet here it was—right in the middle of a diplomatic lounge, in a moment of unwitting comedy.

In the end, the incident became an anecdote that would follow me long after our departure from Russia. The Brazilian dignitary, I'm sure, will never forget the lesson in linguistic nuances: my name, indeed, is truly "the most remarkable thing" in Russia, albeit in a rather unintentional way. From that day onward, I have no doubt he will always remember to call me by the second name—most likely with a chuckle, of course.

And as for me, well, I couldn't help but laugh along, for diplomacy is as much about handling such delicate moments as it is about navigating the intricacies of global affairs. In the end, a name is just a name, but a well-timed misstep? Now that’s a memory to cherish for years to come.

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This version maintains an elegant, diplomatic tone while adding humor and charm to the story, making it both engaging and light-hearted. The experience is portrayed with the grace and subtlety expected of a diplomat’s narrative, while still allowing for a fun, relatable twist.

Diplomat by Merit

In the diplomatic career, one can rise in two ways: through seniority or merit. Although I am not a diplomat by profession, I was once "decorated" as such. As an advisor, I had many responsibilities, one of which was to assist and accompany foreign authorities visiting Brazil—something I did very well, thanks to the invaluable lessons I had learned from Brazilian diplomats whom I had humbly served in the early years of my career.

In April 2006, the South Agricultural Council (CAS) meeting took place in Brasília. A significant gathering of Agriculture Ministers, this annual event is held in one of the member countries of the Council, and this time, by coincidence or fate, the city of Brasília was chosen. Even more surprisingly, I was also selected to be part of it.

For a recent graduate in International Relations, participating in such a meeting was a true prize. Not only could I proudly highlight my "grandiose" participation on my professional resume, but I would also be face-to-face with decision-makers from South American countries. I would have access to privileged information before the press, and I would be behind the scenes, witnessing firsthand what transpired in the closed-door world of diplomacy.

Speaking of the behind-the-scenes world of diplomacy, it’s important to mention the days leading up to meetings like these. I believe the training at the Rio Branco Institute and in the Itamaraty is very rigorous. I vividly recall spending hours checking, “re-checking,” and “triple-checking” lists, names, microphones, carpets, gifts, vehicle arrivals and departures, phones, badges, security, doormen, meals, music, attendance sheets, diplomatic staff, flight schedules, airport contacts, the Federal Police, and ceremonial protocols for the embassy and the Itamaraty. These were things I can barely remember now, but they were enough to make me seriously reconsider my career, leaving me with a sense of eternal frustration.

I bring this up because my boss at the time asked me to "make a heart out of the guts." He was in a total panic whenever I didn’t know the answer to a question, claiming that we were in the final preparations and that the meeting was right around the corner, and there was no time to waste. And, indeed, there was no time. The meeting was scheduled for April, and we were already in January. For my boss, months felt like hours—time flew by, and there was always more to do. "Diplomats are busy people, and we can’t waste their time," he would often say. I think this notion dates back to Baron Rio Branco. The legend goes that his office was filled with papers, books, maps, scrolls, letters—his life was extremely busy. My boss, being his devoted disciple, also maintained this standard. He was a busy man, even without the scrolls and piles of papers. He always seemed to have no time.

With all the preparations completed for this prestigious meeting of the Southern Cone's Agriculture Ministers, I received the news that I would be responsible for receiving all the ministers upon their arrival at Brasília’s airport. It was a critical mission, and I was eager to fulfill it. Welcoming foreign dignitaries is not an easy task. You have to know how to greet someone after a long flight, ask a few questions, be clear, and always have a card in hand in case something goes wrong. In my case, I seemed to have a particular attraction to problems. Or perhaps it was the problems that had an attraction to me?

I received the list of authorities and their companions, the list of Federal Police officers accompanying us, the list of airport contacts, the list of Ministry staff on duty, dietary restrictions, phone numbers, diplomatic corps, and the drivers who would take us to the hotel. Imagine the chaos of lists and copies I was holding. I’m sure diplomats don’t have lists like these; they have assistants to carry and read them. My job that night was to carry and read the lists for my boss whenever he asked.

We headed to the airport with a convoy of cars—a scene straight out of an action movie. Police officers, official cars, escorts, and there I was, surrounded by my lists. Upon arriving at the airport, we were greeted by Infraero, who escorted us to the VIP lounge, where we waited for the arrival of the flights. Everything went smoothly on that Sunday evening. Let me emphasize, Sunday evening, because in Brasília on Sunday nights, not many shops are open. Maybe a pharmacy or a 24-hour supermarket, but that’s about it.

That night, my boss and I received the ministers. Our job was to greet them on behalf of the Brazilian government, ensure everything was in order, and escort them to their cars for transport to the hotel. We also discussed the schedule for the next day and the details of the meeting. The last to arrive was the Minister of Agriculture from Chile, Dr. Álvaro Rojas—a name I’ll never forget, especially now that it’s written here. When the Chilean Minister arrived, my boss greeted him and asked me to take care of the final details. After all, it was late, and the job was almost done. He said he’d be available by phone, as always.

I was left alone with the Chilean Minister and took the opportunity to chat with him. I can’t remember what I said, but I quickly noticed that he wasn’t paying much attention to my words. I realized he was anxious, but I didn’t understand why until I saw that it was just the three of us in the baggage claim area at 11:00 PM on a Sunday night. That’s when my panic began. I clearly remember what the Minister was wearing: athletic shoes, beige pants, and a rather casual jacket. His assistant was dressed similarly—casual, not formal. This was significant because the next day at 8:00 AM, they were scheduled to attend an official meeting and couldn’t be seen in such informal attire.

He looked at me and said, "So, what do we do?" I had no other choice but to go to the airline desk and try to figure out what they could do. The airline informed me that the luggage was in Guarulhos and would arrive on Monday afternoon. The problem was that "afternoon" was too late for us. He looked at me again and asked, “How do we solve this?” With much distress, I tried to explain that on Sunday night in Brasília, there wasn’t much open. The supermarket might be the only option, if he wanted to buy hygiene products or perhaps try to find a shirt and tie there.

With no alternatives, he looked at his watch, which had just struck midnight, and reluctantly agreed to my suggestion. Off we went to the supermarket, me, two foreign authorities, and police cars with their sirens blaring.

The ride was long. We crossed the entire city of Brasília, as the only 24-hour supermarket at the time was located at the opposite end of the city. The airport is at the far end (South Wing), while the supermarket was at the other end (North Wing). This was the perfect opportunity for the Chilean Minister to ask me questions about Brasília—its founding, population, public transportation, agriculture, energy supply, city management, violence, and macroeconomic data, all while we took a quick tour of the city. I tried calling my boss, but for the first time, his phone went to voicemail. I’m convinced that diplomats have some sort of sixth sense; they know when things are going to go wrong. Maybe that’s why my boss left the airport before I did. It’s a mystery I’ll keep to myself forever, and I’m pretty sure he has forgotten about this story—diplomats are just too busy to remember everything.

After the sirens and our mini tour of Brasília, we finally reached our destination: the supermarket. It was nearly 1:00 AM. I asked the police officers to turn off the sirens, but they insisted on keeping them on. They were following orders, they said, and turning off the sirens wasn’t part of their instructions. I kept quiet and went into the supermarket with the Minister, his assistant, and two agents in sunglasses. The question I asked myself at that moment was, "Why didn’t they take off their sunglasses?" I didn’t ask, though. After the scolding I received for suggesting they turn off the sirens, I wasn’t in the mood for more questions. I guess the sunglasses are part of their uniform or perhaps a way to obscure their vision so criminals can’t tell where they’re looking.

In the supermarket, I felt a bit uncomfortable with the police officers, but I had no other option. I followed the Minister and did my job: to accompany and assist the foreign authorities. We found the clothing section, with ties, pants, shirts, and shoes. I was relieved to have taken them to the right place. The Minister started asking a million questions about sizes, colors, and types of clothing. I had no idea, so I went to find someone who could help. At 2:00 AM, it was hard to find employees, especially those working in the clothing section. For reasons that only destiny could explain, the first person I found wasn’t from the clothing department, but from the “lost children” microphone.

I explained the situation, and he eagerly agreed to help. He grabbed the microphone and announced, "Attention! The Minister of Chile is in the supermarket. All staff, please head to the textile section!" I can still vividly remember my life flashing before my eyes: the time I learned to walk, the time I fell off my bike, my first kiss, my bad grades, the time I wanted to run away from home, the time I forged my mother's signature. I quickly grabbed the microphone from his hand and told him to stop. He looked at me and said, “Well, it’s already done.” I rushed to the textile section and saw the police officers in action. They had blocked off both sides of the section, ensuring no staff could get near the Minister. They

My first assignment

The long afternoons spent by my grandmother’s side, immersed in encyclopedias as a child, remain etched in my memory. The fascination with flags, the history of each country, and the vivid world I discovered from her room—these were the building blocks of my dreams. Years later, I would find myself working as an intern in the office of a peculiar diplomat, who, at that time, was a second-class minister—a position just a step away from becoming an ambassador.

It was all so new to me, and I remember how it felt like a dream finally coming true: to work in the very field I had spent four long years studying at university. Minister Louis was an eccentric figure, always in motion—agitated, quick-tempered, and insistent on getting things done fast. His appearance was always impeccable. His suit, although old, was meticulously cared for. The fragrance he wore was impossible to miss. We could sense his arrival from a distance, not only by the fresh, enveloping scent, but by the palpable shift in the air. It was as if the environment itself trembled before him, as though the leaves fluttered, the air buzzed—an almost supernatural prelude to his entrance.

Inside his office, there were two secretaries. One was deeply religious, absent-minded, and largely indifferent to the minister’s sharp remarks and demands. The other was exceptionally competent, understanding his preferences and routines, and had worked with him for years. I, on the other hand, was just an intern—a fresh face in the diplomatic world. On my first day, the minister called me in for something that felt utterly bizarre: a dictation. Yes, you read that correctly—a dictation. Back then, it wasn’t common for bosses to write their own documents, so he would dictate, I would take notes, rush to the computer, type everything up, and then bring it back to him for corrections.

His office was a testament to his career. Family portraits showcasing his achievements, a set of sofas for receiving visitors, a massive bookshelf filled with books, and photographs with presidents and other dignitaries. In the back, there were portraits of the great patrons of diplomacy. The office exuded elegance, but it was also intimidating—almost as if you were in a palatial chamber. Minister Louis would sit behind his desk, surrounded by neatly organized stationery, speaking in a loud, almost strident tone. When he stood, he gestured wildly, his restlessness filling the room. During the dictations, he would pause, look out of the window, deep in thought, while I hurriedly took notes. He would pace back and forth, lean over what I had written, and make changes—endlessly altering, correcting, and revising. It was exhausting, but more like a workout for him, given how much he moved around the office.

Once the dictation was done, he would demand that I “fly like the wind” to get the document back to him for signature. His expectations were simple: the document had to be flawless—well-written, polished, and free from any errors in grammar, spelling, or punctuation. If I succeeded, I would be showered with compliments, asked about my life, my future, and he would always suggest that I pursue a diplomatic career, as it was the “elite” of the country. But if I made even the slightest mistake, whether in agreement, names, dates, or even the most minor language error, it was an entirely different story. He would become furious, shouting, questioning whether I had even attended school, whether I had studied at all. It was nothing short of humiliating.

One day, he asked me if I had "been to school" after I made a mistake with an accent. “Run to the library,” he told me. The next day, he threatened to “take Camões” from me. Completely confused, I asked, “What about Camões, sir?” He shouted, “Read Camões!” and slammed the door, leaving me in utter bewilderment.

Later, I shared the experience with a colleague, who laughed out loud. It turned out that the minister’s threat was serious, and yet, I still had no clue what I was supposed to read about Camões. Eager to impress and avoid further humiliation, I spent the entire night reading summaries about the poet, trying to prepare myself for whatever would come next. The next day, the minister asked if I had read Camões. He then called me for another dictation. But this time, he asked if he could trust me, that he had a personal request and needed my help. I was thrilled. This meant he trusted my work, and it was my chance to prove myself.

He then turned on the red light in his office. This light was a device next to his desk that, when activated, lit up a small red lamp outside the door, signaling that no one could disturb him. No calls, no visitors, nothing could get through. It was his way of ensuring absolute privacy and focus. And there I was, inside the room with him, while chaos unfolded outside as everyone wondered what was happening. It became somewhat of a spectacle. But for me, it felt like a badge of honor. I had earned his trust, and for a young intern, that meant the world.

He proceeded to explain that he needed me to type a letter to his neighbor, who had requested that he trim the trees on his property, as their falling leaves were causing trouble. The minister asked me to write the letter exactly as he dictated:

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Dear Sir,

With reference to your letter dated June 23, 2004, I am pleased to inform you that the forestry engineer from NOVACAP, upon visiting my residence, not only confirmed that there is no danger of the nearby paineira trees falling near the property line of our properties, and thus, as you put it, "causing a tragedy" to your family, but also informed me that there is no record in Brasília of any paineira trees ever falling. This is due to the structure of their trunks, which are much thicker at the base, giving them exceptional balance—hence their name “barriguda,” as they are commonly known. Moreover, given the monumental size of the two trees, their grandeur during blooming season, and their contribution to alleviating the dry climate in Brasília, cutting them down would be an environmental crime, equivalent to killing them, as you request.

By the way, I would like to inform you that the firefighters, who pruned the branches of the two paineiras in March 2001 (with my consent), do not have the technical expertise or authority to determine a "dangerous situation," as stated in your letter.

2. However, in a demonstration of goodwill, I have had all the branches that might potentially fall into your yard pruned. Additionally, with written authorization from the NOVACAP engineer, dated June 3 of this year, I was able to request the fire department to remove, as soon as possible, a paineira that, due to its underdevelopment compared to the others, might eventually break (for example, in a storm) and fall into your green area.

3. In return for my act of "neighborly civility," and considering your suggestion that "as neighbors, we should resolve matters amicably," I kindly request that you take the necessary measures to prevent your numerous cats from invading my property. I should note that I have been forced to repaint my barbecue area several times (your cats, in search of scraps every time I barbecue, leave marks on the white walls of the house), and more importantly, one of them entered my living room and broke a French biscuit piece with a Baccarat crystal top from the 19th century, which belonged to my great-grandfather, Baron de Mesquita, and is therefore of inestimable value. At the time, I did not bring this matter to your attention "for the sake of good neighborliness."

4. Furthermore, I kindly request that, in compliance with the noise control law, you take the necessary steps to prevent your dog, which invariably barks non-stop for hours every Sunday—probably because it is confined or chained—from disturbing the peace of my family and, also, that of your other neighbor from house 14, especially on the one day of the week designated for rest.

5. Hoping that after so many years, we can finally enjoy a relationship of good neighborliness, I express my highest regards to you.

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The entire day was spent drafting and redrafting this letter. He dictated, corrected, changed, and shouted, pacing around the room like a whirlwind. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Was this really diplomacy? Where were the great issues of the world that I had thought diplomats dealt with daily? Yet, despite the chaos, I took the entire process seriously. It wasn’t about the trees or the letter—it was about gaining his trust, learning from him, and, strangely, enjoying the madness of it all. It was the most important day of my short internship—one where I truly felt like I mattered, at least for a moment.

Opening Remarks

Many years ago, friends and colleagues began suggesting that I should write down or somehow record the strange, humorous, and often downright surreal situations I faced during my time as a government servant. For much of that time, I resisted the idea. Perhaps out of concern for how those involved in the stories might feel, or because I believed it would be an unnecessary exposure of my daily work life. After all, these are real-life stories, and while they may seem comical or eccentric, they are, at their core, the reality for many people working in government.

What always astonishes me when I revisit these memories is how much more amusing real life can be than any fictional tale. The sheer unpredictability of it all is far more entertaining than anything a writer could invent.

So here I am, almost a decade after stepping away from the world of international diplomacy and government affairs, ready to share these stories with you. Time, I believe, has softened the edges of those often tense moments. It has allowed me—and the characters in these stories—to look back and laugh at ourselves, to find the humor in what was once a heavy burden. There’s a saying that goes, "If you can laugh at yourself, you're going to be fine. If you allow others to laugh with you, you’ll be great." This resonates deeply with me, and it is precisely the spirit behind the stories you will find here: the ability to laugh at life’s absurdities.

Of course, I will refrain from naming names or locations in order to protect the privacy of those involved. Many of them are still dear friends today, still out there, still working, and undoubtedly continuing to accumulate stories that are probably even more amusing than mine. The power of the drawers still exists, after all, and I suspect it continues to inspire situations just as peculiar on a daily basis.

I spent over fifteen years navigating a world full of bosses—both small and large, more than thirty international missions, countless endless meetings (you know the ones that seem to have no end), sleepless nights, hundreds of flights, and exhausting road trips by car and bus (I shudder to think of some of the more dreadful ones). There were confusions, dismissals, administrative problems, TV reports, and breaking news that we often knew about before it even hit the public. Sadly, not all of it was good news... but that’s life, right? It's not fiction, so there were certainly days of panic and genuine fear about what might happen next.

The emotions I feel when revisiting all of this are a mix of confusion and nostalgia. While the longing for those days sometimes brings tears, there’s also a sense of relief in no longer feeling the prelude to the agony that accompanied these stories. Perhaps the nostalgia is for the colleagues, the companions who were there through it all, and who—together—made it possible for us to laugh about these things today rather than cry. There's immense value in these friendships, which allow us to look back at all the struggles without bitterness. On the contrary, we can laugh and share the grace, the oddities, and the sheer absurdity of it all. It's a way to release the weight that those who take themselves too seriously impose on what are, at the end of the day, just the routines that make the world work—or not.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing and reminiscing about them.