Polite, that is. The West Wing - the first 2½ seasons, all I've seen so far - is infectious, intelligent, kitschy, touching, daring. Especially the latter. Picture it: We have a Democrat president, good-looking, Southern-twanged, not unintelligent - failing. So someone writes up a better president right then, in a movie, first somewhat non-descript as an interesting widower, with good dialogue and interesting supporting characters. And some time later the same man (WW's creator Sorkin) decides to show the US what a really good Democrat president could be like - in a hit TV series: Sheen's role as the nerdy, cool and inobviously handicapped president, who is discovered as chanceless candidate by a team of expert communicators/lawyers, who - surprise! - all believe in the social Democrat ethic to a tee. And wins. And becomes the focal point of the most powerful soap ever.

Sheen's president Bartlett, who to me looks somewhat like JFK might have at 60, captains a White magic House, that goes boldly through themes and events, and is powered by a lovable cast making even better dialogue, preferrably while on the move in long corridor walking marathons. These "drives" through the glassed-in freneticism of America's inner sanctum of power are cinematographic tours-de-force, that must be seen to be believed; files are constantly put down or picked up, conversants disappear to the left or to the right, only to be replaced by new ones continuing the talk if not the content, takes often taking up to half a minute or longer. The dialogue reminds me a lot of riveting Hawksian dialogues of earlier cinema, e.g. of His Girl Friday - quite astonishing, since that movie is as old as this president! Is the secret of WW's success this grand sense of "retro"? The States we could have had?

The most astonishing episode was the one done just after 9/11. It's a "what if" loop out of the sequence, and all main characters mirror the terrible event, commenting on it, on what's to be done, and - most importantly to me - how to see the perpetrators (paraphrased: the "KKK of Islam, not its mainstream"). I was blown away.

But in the end the series is too good - and naive, e.g. of the influence of the Pentagon in U.S. foreign policy - to be true. And it walks a dangereous path. It is like a far-removed spaceship with a sympathetic, but very powerful captain, who can save the world if he beats the odds again and again, who is kept on the true path by courageous "spin boys" and one girl, that aren't afraid to stand up to him when he gets too carried away. However, it plays in a world too similar to ours for us not to confuse the two, and wish we were in the TV, ever more since we see every day how far the real incumbent draws away from the fictitious one. Finally, in spite of good writing and interesting acting, it's a TV soap and follows the rules of soaps in this setting, inescapably trivialising it.

Absolute power portrayed as a TV series corrupts absolutely my power to not find the characters' behaviour supercilious, inhuman and, in the long run, well, trivial. The series takes itself seriously, in the majority of scenes, and that's my problem with it. My love and my hate of it.

I've managed to extricate myself after the first few episodes of the third season now. There are 4½ seasons to go; it just ended a few months ago. I'll have to think it through a bit, first. Or perhaps wait for another most powerful human on Earth more fitting to the TV role to be voted in before continuing, so as to prevent occasional attacks of nausea...

Just when this journal was going to sleep, I pull out the quill again, inspired by a moment in one of the oldest cities in the world, sitting in a touristy/holiday-spirited square of Westernised not-quite-but-almost-fast-food places in a half-round, looking out on the city's Lake near sunset. That is, about eight p.m. CET (it's in the same time zone as Berlin).

See, there's this walking lesson in politeness, as well as a difference between Old European and really old African cultures, here. An older man, perhaps fifteen years ahead of me, black hair, white sideburns, kind eyes, walking around with a sign saying "hand-drawn portrait so-and-so-many dt" in four languages. He wears black trousers, and a matt-yellow shirt, checked with thin black lines. He is carrying a black wide bag on a shoulder strap, which holds his drawing utensils - some pieces of coal, some pencils and an A3 block of drawing paper.

The thing is, he never speaks to prospective customers. He just walks between the café and dinner tables, smiling, or, if not, having his eyes invite conversation. He tends to sit down with couples or an adult with child; he seems to navigate a wide berth around noisier, larger groups.

And here's the difference I meant: People, mostly men, do actually speak to him. Perhaps they say "that's too expensive" or "why don't you stop bothering us?" or just "won't you sit down?". They don't as a rule just glower and look away. I can't tell exactly what's said, because I don't speak Arabic; I can only interpret the tone of the talk. Once he does sit down, had you not noticed him before, you couldn't tell he hadn't been sitting at that table from the beginning, he's so radiantly happy and involved.

Once he draws, and he takes about twenty minutes a picture, it's all concentration - and shy pride on the part of the drawn person. He discusses the picture as it takes form with the non-modeling (paying) person, then hands it to the proud portraitee at the end.

As the slightly rippling surface of the near lake darkens, I'm reminded of Saint Exupéry's story tellers in Citadelle, and his admonishment to turn your life into some visible work that you have produced. This man, this wise drawer, is doing that, and not even thinking about it. And, unless the locals learn European bad manners, portrait drawers will be offering their skills well into this century, like they probably did even in fabled Carthage. While it fell to ruin, they still thrive, quietly, young or old (it doesn't matter), skillful, eternally giving pride and pleasure, for a small fee.

Sitting writing this in an airport named after a famous composer, piano piano I become aware that I needn't be unhappy I didn't get to see much of the capital city. Not to mention the people, who shy personae like me never get to meet much any way.

Because it seems one needs to have 2 things before one can even attempt a draft judgement on a foreign place one is visiting:

• Time. I was here for four nights, with little spare time outside of the job I was sent here for, and an impending flu to boot (rather, to boot out motivation to undertake exploratory walks).
• Lingo. This is only the third time or so I've visited a place where I knew nothing of the language when I arrived, and where the locals as a broad rule speak none of mine.

The thing about judgement is, apart from its constant practice's being impolite in any case, I find it tends to grow on one beyond one's control.

On and after the one half-hour walk in the vicinity of the stuck-up (at the least, visually) hotel I was inhabiting, I had several times to wrest down generalisms that rose up like those ethereal joys you can't quite explain: That the people of this country (!) are just so - in this case, cool, very practical, determined to surmount international irrelevance (at which, most commentators would agree, I think, they've succeeded); that the city centre architecture proves relatively poor but hardy, lovable; that the reek of nationalism may in fact be a perfume worth coveting in small amounts in my home, too - to resist the ever-growing influence of EU-bureaucrat norming of everyday life.

However, the voice of (assumed!) reason kept interjecting quietly how inadequate this sample of first impressions was, that I wasn't seeing what needed to be seen, comprehending what - and how! - things were being said.

Hoping I won't be asked "what was it like?" too often after such a short trip, here's to my inner True Instant Judge of the World at Large coming to rest again in the next few days. That high of experiencing a new big city newly seen. And I will be revisiting this impressive place some time, hopefully, perhaps better prepared, with a little more time on my hands. And only then judge - demurely - if needs be; and more accurately.