There was an unfortunate limo-jam outside the gates of the Interalpen-Hotel. Over to the side was a whispering huddle of police, flicking hopelessly through a list of names and shrugging, while a row of V12 Mercedes idled angrily. What was happening? Had the organisers realised they’d made a terrible mistake inviting Ed Balls and scratched his name at the last minute?
A people carrier pulled up to the back of the queue, carrying a face I knew well. It was Turkish billionaire and Bilderberg steering committee member, Mustafa Koç. He rubbed the back of his wrestler’s neck with a meaty hand and looked profoundly unamused by the Koç block. I haven’t witnessed a Koç being denied entry this embarrassingly since my university leaving ball.
After snapping a quick Koç pic I ventured a hello. “Mr Koç!” I cried, and gave a friendly wave. He nodded back. I introduced myself, and took his photo again. This suddenly felt a little rude in the middle of a more than usually human moment, so I apologised. “No problem,” he said, and smiled.
Oh my goodness, this was it: dialogue! The great I-Thou connection at the root of all human interaction. Me and Koç, two souls reaching out to each other, across the barricades. I pressed on.