Shuttle Diplomacy

Henry Kissinger, bless him, spent the 1970s performing what became known as Shuttle Diplomacy while rattling around the Middle East in what was essentially a glorified Romahome with wings. A Boeing 707 fitted out with a photocopier, some folding chairs, a stack of briefing papers and, if they were lucky, a packet of biscuits that had not yet fused into a single geological formation. It was diplomacy powered by burnt filter coffee, jet lag and the sheer will to keep the lid on World War Three.

He would hop between Cairo and Tel Aviv like a slightly harassed delivery driver, shuttling agreements that always needed one more tweak. Sleep was something other people did. Furnishings were strictly no-frills. You imagine the seat cushions had all the give of a church pew. It was a flying office cubicle, complete with the faint aroma of panic and stale suits. Yet somehow, out of that airborne Romahome came disengagement accords, ceasefires and a brief reduction in the risk of global nuclear toastiness.

Fast forward to the modern era and we have a very different vision of statesmanship. The President climbs aboard a Boeing palace. Four thousand square feet of floating executive privilege. Leather sofas that probably cost more than the GDP of a mid-sized village. A private suite with a shower that likely has better pressure than most of Britain’s housing stock. Communications so secure that even the NSA would need to knock first. It is a luxury motorhome on permanent standby, only this one can scramble nuclear bombers while you are enjoying a second helping of crème brûlée.

So here is the contrast. Kissinger, the workhorse diplomat, scribbling on draft agreements while turbulence sends his biro skating across the page. Trump, the airborne showman, projecting national power in the form of quilted upholstery and a press corps separated from him by more square footage than a suburban semi. One is the weary mediator negotiating peace in a flying shoebox. The other is effectively saying look at my massive plane, now take me seriously.

What does this tell us? Real diplomacy does not need chandeliers and gold-plated lavatories. It needs grit, a half-functioning Xerox machine and the stamina to keep knocking heads together until someone signs a piece of paper.

The Romahome got Shuttle Diplomacy done. The luxury motorhome looks good on television.

I know which one I would trust when history is on the line.