The cool mountain air of Kananaskis still held the lingering scent of pine and impending political drama as, at 6 AM, a group of about ten men and women ambled along a secluded forest road on the outskirts of town. Their steps were a little less steady than usual, their voices a little louder, betraying the lingering effects of an evening spent unwinding, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, from the stresses of the looming G7 summit.
Suddenly, the beam of a powerful flashlight cut through the pre-dawn gloom, followed by the low growl of a police dog. A security platoon, armed and alert, emerged from the treeline.
“Who are you? Where are you from? Where are you going?” the security chief’s voice, amplified by a megaphone, cut through the quiet.
One of the men, adjusting his tie with a slightly wobbly hand, stepped forward. “We are accompanying the ministers of the G7 member countries. If you have something to say, please speak to the G7 secretariat.” His French accent was unmistakable. He was a secretary on the French ministerial team, clearly accustomed to asserting authority, even in a tipsy state.
A woman, her fiery red hair a stark contrast to the dark uniforms, chimed in. “Tell the Canadian Prime Minister,” she slurred good-naturedly, " ‘Don’t serve bad wine.’ " She was the chief interpreter for the UK team, her frustration with the diplomatic niceties temporarily overridden by the memory of a particularly uninspiring chardonnay.
The security chief remained unamused. “You must not leave the designated area until the meeting is over.” His gaze swept over the group, his police dog straining at its leash.
“You idiots. Everyone else has gone out to eat and go shopping,” scoffed a man from the Japanese delegation, gesturing vaguely towards the town.
“We can arrest you,” the security chief warned, his voice hardening.
“Go ahead and do it,” a German trade official challenged, stepping forward, his arms crossed. “If you do that, you’ll be fired straight away.” His disdain for authority, especially when he felt wronged, was palpable.
A member of the British delegation, sensing the escalating tension, interjected, “I understand your duties. But please understand our anger at being drawn into a meeting that has no particular purpose.” The frustration in her voice was real, a sentiment echoed by many within the G7 entourage. The unannounced military campaign by Israel against Iran just two days prior had thrown the carefully constructed agenda into disarray, making the summit feel like a pointless exercise in diplomacy. The return of Trump to the international stage, with his unpredictable tariffs and defiance of norms, further amplified the sense of futility.
“We must be extremely vigilant against terrorism,” the security chief countered, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest.
An Italian delegation member, a man with an almost theatrical flair, threw his hands up in exasperation. “Terrorism? I welcome it! Because if someone shows up somewhere covered in paint, the world will realize that the leaders of developed countries are just gathering here to kill time.” His words, half-joking and half-serious, hung in the crisp morning air, a stark reflection of the cynicism and frustration simmering beneath the surface of this high-stakes diplomatic gathering in Kananaskis.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms
G7 leaders gather in Canada amid Mideast crisis, tariff woes
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