Sánchez in the NATO thinking corner
They say in geopolitical manuals that international summits are cooked in offices and it is a lie. The true state of the planet and its bosses is measured in centimeters to the right and left of Mr. Trumpin number of ladies at the summits and, why not, in wardrobe rebellions. NATO’s latest “family portrait” in Ankara is a beautiful and brutal x-ray, a traditional portrait of the catacombs and infernal egos of West 2026.
Look at the photo, uniformed on the carpet, like private school students. On these dates you don’t put yourself where you want or next to your best friend; nor does height matter. There are some stickers on the floor that dictate your political sentence. Protocol drags you by the ear and tells you exactly who you are. The official excuse is the alphabet, but how curious that bureaucracy always leaves those who pay in the center.
And then the geography of power is stubborn. In the exact center of the first line, acting as the unstoppable sun upon which the rest of the human race orbits, Donald Trump emerges. Yellow hair and tie that body language of someone who just bought the Atlantic Alliance and is thinking of changing the name to his favorite cocktail. At his side, the secretary general Mark Rutte and the host Erdogan They sing the chorus with a tense smile.
But the eye inevitably wanders to the label’s great disruptor. There it is Edi Ramathe Prime Minister of Albania, tearing up the protocol manual at its feet. In a sea of black oxfords and circumspect loafers, His histrionic sneakers in blinding white shine like a beacon of civil disobedience and streetwear institutional. Two meters of former basketball player who decides to pass the label with impunity in VIP Night code and very Emilio Aragón. It is the permitted frivolity of the club:
You can ride Crocs to the end of the world as long as you don’t bother the driver. In his defense he clarified that they are not a luxury brand like Gucci Sport; Rama’s sneakers are modest Adidas (“because I was a basketball player and I still am on the inside.”).
Then there is the depressing test of Bechdel of the Alliance. You have to sharpen your eyes to find the four troupe women that dot this desert of testosterone, providing just the right amount of screen so that it doesn’t look like a Masonic lodge or a poker game. Yuck.
The climax for the Spanish: the thinking corner. There, frozen at the absolute edge of the frame, as is tradition, We find Sánchez in a light blue suit desperately looking for some lighta hug and a cup of chocolate.
All this choreography is the easy part to tell. Trump has once again pointed out Spain as the partner that is not involved and does not pay and has repeated the threat of cutting all commercial relations with the country. When he says these things, I think he speaks to the electorate. The recipient of the insult is almost never the one who receives it.
Once again Sánchez, the living image of the corner doctrine, the military power of the West continues to reek of a male dandy; the others make rhetorical balancing acts to avoid unleashing the tycoon’s tariff fury… And Trump thinks: “Hey time, hey wine… when are you going to put me in my place?”