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If bureaucracy were an art form, it would surely be the art of waiting. Anyone who has ever served in any government will know this: hours, days and sometimes weeks of seemingly endless waiting, followed by sudden avalanches of work, deadlines and all-nighters. One waits, and waits, and then suddenly everything happens at once. Being part of an official delegation feels pretty much the same.
For many, an official trip may best be described as waiting with a view. The business jet or government aircraft waiting on the tarmac. A military band waiting at the airport upon arrival, or if the host country does not go in for a ceremony, a small reception committee waiting with flags. The convoy of buses and SUVs waiting to transport ministers, staffers and journalists to hotels or conference centers. The meals, which may or may not resemble local cuisine, depending on the country’s tolerance for the risk. Then, before you know it, you are back on the plane.
Ben Rhodes, who served as deputy national security adviser to U.S. President Barack Obama, captures that same feeling in his 2018 memoir “The World As It Is.” He describes the odd, cinematic feeling of riding in a motorcade, suspended between monotony and drama. His account stuck with me because it captures something that transcends countries and contexts. Whether in Washington, Ankara or Berlin, delegations move through the world in the same way: enclosed, time-stretched, and oddly insulated from the very countries they are visiting.
For me, though, there is a special twist when the destination is New York, where I lived for years. Back then, the city was not a blur seen from behind tinted glass but a lived-in environment. Subways and bodegas, long commutes, favorite cafes, and the daily grind. Life was stationary, repetitive, grounded. Returning now as a temporary visitor in an official capacity, I am struck by the contrast. The city that once unfolded slowly in front of me now rushes past in flashes: chess players at Union Square from a car window, the United Nations headquarters from the window of the Turkish House, a hotel ballroom filled with hurried conversations. What used to be home away from home is now a series of brief impressions, swallowed up by the delegation’s schedule.
This contrast also highlights the strange duality of official travel. On the one hand, it is undeniably prestigious to be part of a head-of-state delegation. The stakes are high, the meetings matter, and the speeches are watched around the world. On the other hand, the personal experience is one of repetition and routine, of waiting in holding rooms and hotel lobbies, of checking your phone more often than you’d like to admit. There is glamor in the headlines but also a lot of jet lag, stale coffee, and the quiet hum of bureaucracy.
And yet, even with all its monotony, these trips still have their moments. I still remember the first time I flew to New York for the General Assembly some 10 years ago, part of the excitement being simply the feeling of history repeating itself. Every year, presidents and prime ministers converge on Manhattan. Every year, the same security cordons are erected, the same complaints about traffic gridlock resurface, and the same cocktail parties are thrown across midtown. It is as though the city itself has learned to anticipate the rhythms of diplomacy, resigned to the annual invasion of motorcades.
There are also the little quirks that New Yorkers themselves both dread and laugh about: the one week of the year when the Carnegie Club, a cigar lounge on 56th and 6th, is absolutely packed with staffers and delegates unwinding after long days; the one week of the year when New York City traffic, already notorious, becomes particularly unbearable; the one week of the year when Apple mysteriously yet predictably runs out of iPhones, snapped up by visiting entourages.
But even in the middle of the waiting and repetition, New York still offers flashes of delight. One evening, I managed to slip away long enough to share a meal with an old friend at Sakagura, a hidden gem where, improbably, some of the best sashimi you’ll ever taste is served in the basement of a Midtown office building. That contrast – the joy of an out-of-this-world dinner tucked away just blocks from U.N. security cordons – reminded me why this city continues to fascinate me. Amid the motorcades and speeches, there is still space for human connection and serendipity.
Perhaps that is the lesson buried in all this waiting and repetition: that diplomacy, like bureaucracy, is less about dramatic breakthroughs and more about endurance. It is about showing up, year after year, and keeping conversations alive even when progress seems impossible. Just as civil servants learn to wait for the moment when things suddenly accelerate, delegations endure the quiet hours so that, when history does move, they are in the room.
If Hollywood were ever to make a film about official delegations, audiences might expect something fast-paced and glamorous. In reality, it would look more like Jarhead – long stretches of waiting, punctuated by rare bursts of intensity. And maybe that is why we endure the endless waiting: because, in between the monotony and the motorcades, there are glimpses of history being made.
