Havana, Cuba: where a Yankee imperialist *is* a Yankee imperialist.

There’s a great expression in American English: “Where you stand depends on where you sit.”

It means: your point of view is probably highly correlated with what you think your place in the world is.

It’s a simple idea, but I have found it extremely powerful to keep it in mind when working on place branding jobs, or doing any kind of corporate identity work that involves getting to know the culture of an organization or a nation. And I’ve been grateful — and amused — whenever I’ve stumbled across something that makes me realize my perspective is just that: a perspective, not [necessarily] the gospel truth.

Example 1:

Once I wrote an article for The Wall Street Journal about the British Empire and Commonwealth Museum in Bristol, England. When I visited the museum, I found one placard on the wall which put the American Revolution somewhat differently than did my childhood history texts in Southern California:

Colonial rebels: The American War of Independence

By 1765 thirteen very different English-speaking colonies stretched along America’s east coast. But, from Georgia in the south to Massachusetts in the north, one thing united them. They disliked Britain imposing taxes on them.

The colonists kept spreading westwards, seizing land and starting wars with the local people. They expected British troops to defend them. But they objected when parliament tried to recover its defence costs by taxing them.

And so on. Not inaccurate — but certainly framed from an angle alien to the one I grew up accepting as reality.

Example 2:

In Havana, Cuba, the one-time presidential palace now houses the Museum of the Revolution. Outside the museum is the tank which supposedly (but why shouldn’t it be so?) Fidel Castro himself drove at the Bay of Pigs invasion. The text is all about Yankee imperialist invaders and heroic rebuffs. So, too, is the placard beside the pieces of Maj. Rudolph Anderson’s U-2 plane, which the Cubans managed to shoot down in 1962 just prior to the Cuban missile crisis. To an American it’s entertaining to read. Sure, it’s propagandistic, but it makes you realize there’s another side to the coin.

But my point is simple: I always try to remember that mine isn’t the only way of looking at things, and — possibly even more vitally — that people’s perspectives are always as real and truthful to them as mine is to me.

Lithuania used to be the largest country in Europe, stretching, under the rule of Grand Duke Vytautas in 1430, from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea (a feat achieved, incidentally, not by conquest but by inclusiveness and diplomacy).  Lithuania was also a Soviet Republic for half a century, and Vilnius, its capital, wears on its sleeve the evidence of just how far the country’s come since independence in 1991 (and joining the EU in 2004).

After much restoration, Vilnius is back to being its ridiculously beautiful self. Home to about half a million, it’s one of the most pleasing cities in northeastern Europe: distinctive and familiar, exalted and accessible, storied and gloried, ambitious, confident, tragic, romantic and, these days, very, very lively.

Where to stay

The Narutis (Pilies str 24; + 370 5 2122894; www.narutis.com) is sometimes said to be the best hotel in Vilnius, and is well-appointed if stuffy. The Reval Hotel Lietuva (Konstitucijos pr. 20; +371 6 777 2345; www.revalhotels.com) is gigantic and well-run by a Finn, but is a good walk across the river from old town. If you want to play it safe and be confident of a perfect location, try the Radisson (Didzioji 35/2; +370 5 2120 110;www.radissonblu.com/hotel-vilnius). If you don’t mind staying 10 minutes by foot from the action, the moderately priced Algirdas (Algirdo str. 24; +370 5 2326650; www.algirdashotel.lt), is one of the newest hotels in Vilnius. Or if you want to be fully self-sufficient and rent a flat, contact Darius at VIP Apartments (+370 6984 7355; www.vipapartments.lt/?en).

Where to eat

Vilnius doesn’t have many fine dining options, but if you need a special restaurant, try Saint Germain (Literatu 9; +370 5 2621 210; www.vynine.lt) or DOMM (Didzioji 31; +370 686 77707;www.domm.lt) in the Town Hall, which is reputedly the best in town.

The atmospheric Uzupis Café (Uzupio 2; +370 5 2122 138;www.uzupiokavine.lt) is famed as the bar, restaurant and parliament house of the Uzupis Republic. Here you can try saltibarsciai (cold borscht with potatoes – good stuff) or cepelinai (potato dumplings stuffed with minced meat; a real Lithuanian classic – the classic, actually, but not to everybody’s taste) or kepta duona (fried rye bread with garlic and cheese) and wash it down with the ubiquitous Lithuanian brewsky, Svyturys Extra.

In the district of Gedimino, Neringa (Gedimino Avenue 23;+370 5 2614 058; www.restoranasneringa.lt) is a great place for lunch and a glimpse of classic Soviet interior design; the specialty of the house is deep-fried chicken Kiev. Slightly further out but worth the walk (over the bridge, past the Seimas parliament building) is the quirky, classy, hip Jalta (Vykinto 17a) which is good for drinks or food, day or night.

Elsewhere, the Contemporary Art Centre café (Vokieciu 2; + 370 5 2121945; www.cac.lt) is a stylish place to grab a bite to eat for lunch or dinner while Manonering Guru (Vilniaus 22; +370 5 2120 126; lunch only) has a vast selection of fresh salads.

Where to party

Many locals feel Pabo Latino (Traku 3/2; +370 5 2621 045;www.pabolatino.lt) is a bit of a meat market, but it’s also the snazziest club in Vilnius. Woo (Vilniaus 22; +370 5 2127 740;www.woo.lt) draws a good crowd, but can get stiflingly hot. They have a lot of live acts, including the jazz that Lithuanians are famous for. The salon-ish Mano Alibi (Totoriu 18; + 370 5 212 5051; www.manoalibi.lt), with its flecked wallpaper, has a wall-to-wall crowd even on a Tuesday night. Paparazzi (Totoriu 3; +370 5 2120 135; www.paparazzi.lt) a block away, is a wryly themed institution with an extensive cocktail menu.

For a mellower scene, or to kick off the evening, head for In Vino (Ausros Vartu 7; +370 5 2121 210; www.invino.lt), not far from the Gates of Dawn, or Tappo D’oro (Stuokos-Guceviciaus 7; +370 686 168 66; www.tempolibero.lt) between the cathedral and the president’s palace. Both wine bars are done nicely (the latter exceptionally so), but with a local twist, and get packed at peak times so make a reservation beforehand if possible.

What to see

Vilnius is best understood as a place for ambling about. The entire downtown – the largest working old town in Europe – is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and a feast for the senses, especially in summertime. There are three key areas to check out: Pilies Street (and surrounds), Gedimino Avenue (and surrounds) and the district of Uzupis.

The Gates of Dawn and Pilies (Castle) Street

The Gates of Dawn is the last of the original entrances through the mostly long-gone city wall. A few blocks down from here is the restored Town Hall square. Off the square is Vokeciu [German] Street, a wide boulevard at the corner of which is the Contemporary Arts Centre. Incidentally, Vilnius was one of the most important Jewish cities in Europe – the Jerusalem of the north – and this whole neighbourhood was the heart of Jewish Vilnius prior to WWII; Vokeciu Street divided two of the ghettos.

Further down Pilies Street you’ll pass Vilnius University (Universteto 3; +370 5 2687 0001; www.vu.lt), Lithuania’s Harvard and one of the oldest universities in Eastern Europe. Close to the bottom of Pilies, turn right down Mykolo Street and stop at the Amber Gallery (Myklo Str 8; +370 5 2625 241;www.ambergallery.lt). There’s a tiny, free “museum” downstairs, and if you want to buy amber, some of the best is sold here. Amber has deep cultural and mythological significance in Lithuania’s pagan heritage, making it an appropriate souvenir.

Castle Hill and Gedimino Avenue

There is only one thing in Vilnius you really must see, and that’s the KGB museum (Auku str. 2a; +370 5 249 7427;www.genocid.lt/muziejus/en/). It’s actually called the Genocide Victims’ Museum, but since it manages to gloss completely over the awful period of Nazi occupation from 1941 to 1944, its common name is more accurate and more deserved. If you have only ten minutes between meetings, then just go downstairs and walk the length of the prison. It won’t be pleasant, but you’ll be doing your job as a human. The museum is free and keeps reasonable hours. Don’t miss it.

Climb the Castle Hill (or take the funicular) up to what’s left of the castle. The view, plus the wooden scale models of the city at various stages on display inside, will give you the lay of the land of Vilnius. At the base of the hill is the cathedral. The separate tower is the bell tower, and it’s the chief visual icon of the city. Put the cathedral at your back and walk straight up Gedimino Avenue. This was Lenin’s Prospekt during Soviet Times, and remains Vilnius’s main drag. Make a right opposite the Novotel, and walk down Vilniaus Street to the river and the Green Bridge, which exhibits probably the only four ideologically Soviet statues still standing in the country (if you’re curious about Soviet architecture, seek out the Lietuva cinema and the Soviet wedding palace, both of which are truly impressive examples). From here you’ll also glimpse a few of the city’s modern skyscrapers across the river.

The Uzupis Republic

My favourite Vilnius neighbourhood and the first settlement built outside the protective city walls. It fell into disrepair after it was cleared of its Jewish inhabitants in the Holocaust and was subsequently taken over by artists, thieves, prostitutes and suchlike, before declaring itself a faux-independent republic in 2000. Its current incarnation is a welcoming admixture of truly Bohemian and genuinely gentrified.

On your way there, make sure you notice St Anne’s church, a red brick gothic building which Napoleon wanted to take home in his pocket for Josephine. Walk along the river behind the Uzupis Café and find the Bridge to Nowhere, the Galera (Uzupio2;www.umi.lt) art gallery (typical artsy Uzupis), and the sculptures in the river. If you go back and carry on up the main street you came in on, up to the square, you’ll see the Uzupis Angel on a pillar in the centre.

If you’ve got any time (or energy) left, follow the road up the hill, take the right fork and pop into the hideaway known as Snekutis (Polocko 7a; +370 6504 7058)  for a bottle of beer or gira (refreshing fermented bread drink) and a side of garlicky smoked pig’s ears. If it’s a warm, sunny day, though, take the left fork instead and visit Tores (Uzupio 40; +370 603 90524;www.tores.lt) which has a memorable view of the city’s spires, tiled roofs and forested hillsides from its terrace.

Out of town

About 40 minutes from Vilnius is the country’s ancient capital, Trakai, with a restored Teutonic castle situated on an island in a lake. Go anytime of year (by train, car or organized tour). There’s a formal restaurant close to the bridge, or the casual standby Kybynlar (Karaim? g.29; +370 698 06320; www.kybynlar.lt), serving the food (and teaching you something of the culture) of the local Karaite people, a wandering Turkic tribe that settled here ages ago.

Best read

Vilnius: City of Strangers is the best single volume on the city. Says one rave review, it contains “diary entries, letters, jottings and other personal prose written about Vilnius over the past 700 years or so by visitors to the city including Dostoyevsky, G. K. Chesterton, Napoleon, Stendahl and others….Brimming with tales and observations of Germans, Jews, Poles, Russians, Tartars, Belarussions and of course Lithuanians to name but a few who’ve helped shape the city.”

What you should know

Lithuanian’s the language here (standard Roman alphabet; it helps if you happen to know Sanskrit, to which it’s closely related), but you can gingerly assume English is understood (and spoken with a considerable range of proficiency) by professionals, shopkeepers and everyone under the age of 30. It’s even easier to get by in Russian, the speaking of which will cause no offence; the ethnic Russians here are well integrated, so unlike in the other two Baltic countries Estonia and Latvia, speaking Russian in Lithuania won’t provoke any sensitivities.

The weekly podcasts of the Mondayjazz musical group (www.mondayjazz.com) have reputedly gained a worldwide following and may just put you in a Vilnius mood before – and after – your visit.

Words and photos by Jeremy Hildreth (www.jeremyhildreth.com) Originally published on Globalista as Globalista’s Mini-Guide to Vilnius.

The new issue of the quarterly academic journal Place Branding and Public Diplomacy includes a long article by me. The abstract reads:

Editor Simon Anholt asked Jeremy Hildreth for his ‘ big picture ’ thoughts on the state of the place branding field – where it is, and where it might be going.

This article employs many evocative metaphors to define and describe the benefits and hazards of place branding. The article takes the view that, broadly speaking, successful place branding results when certain mistakes are avoided and certain other challenges are imaginatively and thoughtfully resolved.

The article proposes a generic, narrative meta-model of place branding, which any place may refer to regardless of the present level of development of its product, perception or promotion. Some of the tools of place branding – including graphic design, advertising, marketing communications, architecture and exports – are explored. And mention is made of the innovations and refinements that are needed in the near future, including cross-fertilization of the place branding discipline with insights from such fields as evolutionary science.

The article concludes by likening the current state of place branding to an old map of the world, where the continents have all been discovered and are in the right places but some of the landmasses are misshapen and many are are still marked unexplored.

You’re welcome to download the full article for free here, HOWEVER, in order to keep within the bounds of the publisher’s [rather hidebound in my view] notion that posting the paper to a public website would discourage people from purchasing an expensive subscription to the journal (whereas I reckon a free sample would spur business, more than likely), to gain access to my lovely paper you’ll have to shoot me a quick email and I’ll send you the password.

Something I’ve just run across has stopped me in my tracks and compelled me to write a quick post about it. If you work with marketing or branding in any way, this idea — it’s kind of a thought experiment, or in NLP terms a “re-frame” — may interest you, also.

First, two seconds of background…. I’m working this morning on my chapter on measuring and monitoring place brands for the upcoming third edition of Destination Branding. Doing some reading and research for it. I discovered that in the Q4 2005 edition of what was then called the Anholt-GMI Nation Brands Index (which was less than a year old at the time), a company called Brand Finance added “a new and very exciting dimension” to the NBI: a financial valuation of the 32 country brands in the index.

Now, I’m a huge sceptic of brand valuation — or, to put it more exactly, I’m a vociferous champion of the limits of brand valuation; brand valuation can be useful, but mostly by examining its delta, its change over time (the absolute figures brand valuation comes up with, in the context of place branding at least, I don’t trust [speaking of provenance] for a New York minute).

Having said that (as Larry David would say), I love the idea behind the “royalty relief” method Brand Finance uses to perform the valuations:

This approach assumes a country does not own its own brand and calculates how much it would need to pay to license it from a third party. The present value of that stream of (hypothetical) brand contribution payments represents the value of the brand.

Even if the figure arrived at by the valuers has little more validity than a finger in the breeze, “royalty relief” is still a great way to think about your brand — whether you’re a place, a company or an individual person: if somebody else owned your brand, your good name, how much would he or she charge you to rent it?

Or, to turn it around and add action implications, if you owned your brand (as you, in point of fact, probably do), and wanted to rent it out, will what your doing right now, today, this week, this month, mean you can charge higher rent for your brand in the future?

Follow up: As if to confirm my point about the delta being the thing, Simon Anholt’s just written a piece for Foreign Policy about how Obama raised America’s brand value by $2 trillion.

Bran Castle in Romania: a moderate disappointment in a country of delights.

Sometimes a more ‘objectively’ attractive place can provide an inferior experience. This is often down to expectations, and whether they are met or exceeded.

Case in point: my friend Barry Verbeek, who lectures in communications at The Hague University, travelled this past summer to Romania and later to Iceland. “My two trips,” he wrote me in an email, “formed an interesting case on how expectations work.”

First I went to Romania and my expectations were low; all I had in mind was the Dracula stories and gypsies. This trip turned out to be great, because it is a beautiful, authentic, historical country with very nice people. My expectations were exceeded and the thing that disappointed me the most — the only thing I had higher expectations of — was the Dracula castle in Bran. Nice, but nothing really special.

My expectations on my trip to Iceland, however, were really high, and they were not met, even though it was a beautiful country. One friend, who had visited some years ago, said it was the most beautiful country he had ever seen. I’d heard other enthusiastic stories also, so I was really excited. It was beautiful, but not what I had expected.

The marketers behind a place don’t control or influence visitors’ expectations to the extent they’d like to. At least, though, they can try to know what those expectations are — and how high. Best of all, if you’re a great place which people have low expectations of, you can really turn this to your advantage.

It’s a hoax. ‘Karen’ is an actress named Ditte Arnth Jorgensen. It was perpetrated by Visit Denmark as a way of positioning the country. VisitDenmark CEO Dorte Kiilerich defended the controversial viral ad in the Danish newspaper Politiken:

Karen’s story shows that Denmark is a broad-minded country where you can do what you want. The film is a good example of independent, dignified, Danish women who dare to make their own choices…We tell a good and sweet story about a mature, responsible woman who lives in a free society and shoulders the responsibility of her actions. And she uses a modern social medium.

Most commentators either are agreeing with Ms Kiilerich, saying, yes, it’s a helpful portrayal of Denmark, or disagreeing with her, saying that’s the wrong story to be telling about Denmark.

I say both sides are wrong.

They’re wrong because they’re looking at the content of the message. They should be looking at the fact of the message.

Anthropologists (and economists) use a concept called honest signals. (It’s a wonderful concept; I’ll surely write more about it another time; read a primer here). And the honest signal that’s being sent here is that a public body in Denmark had the mindset and the moxy (that’s an Americanism for wherewithal, for testicular fortitude) to dream up, script, approve the script for, produce, and launch this particular ad.

And that, frankly, that honest signal, says a lot about Denmark. It says Denmark is not like other places. It says Denmark thinks differently. It says Denmark is not Russia, Egypt, America, Ireland, Mexico, Malaysia or countless other countries whose tourism departments definitely would NOT have created that ad.

That, I believe, is the real message of the Danish mother seeking.

Photo by policewoman Kendelle Clark

Note: I wrote this in 2005; it’s only ever seen the light of day in the Saffron-produced ‘how to sell East Timor’ book I wrote and directed for an identity project in this tumultuous country. But I loved Timor. The country has just celebrated 10 years since its people voted for freedom from Indonesia (a brave move with some violent and tragic consquences). As a toast to that anniversary, I wish to share these notes and observations with a wider audience.

Day 1

After landing in Dili, I shared a taxi into town with two American girls – Peace Corps volunteers on their way back from a holiday. They’d been in Timor-Leste for a year and loved it. I asked if they thought people would come here to visit. ‘Definitely,’ they opined in unison. We then stopped to get money at the one ATM in the country that will dispense cash to foreigners.
________
When the light clicked on I saw him run and I put my foot out and crunched him. After teaching me how to work the A/C, Lino, the bellman who’d shown me to my room, pounced on the cockroach’s carcass, picked it up by an appendage and carried it out with him as he left. In more than a week’s stay, that was the only bug I would see at the Hotel Timor.

At US$135 a night, this hotel – and there is none better in town – is clean and nice but not sharp (for example: there’s an in-room safe, but it’s not bolted down and I had to put my own batteries into the electronic mechanism in order to make it work). But the staff are helpful, the breakfasts are hearty, and Portuguese tarts served at the bar downstairs would be worth crossing a continent for let alone the lobby. For evening R&R, there’s a brilliant black-bottomed swimming pool out back, which is surrounded by meaty dark green grass on which are arranged a dozen pillow-topped teakwood chaise lounges.

Reclining on one of them, you’d have no idea you were in one of the poorest countries in the world (average annual wage: US$400, according to the CIA World Factbook).
________
On Lonely Planet’s recommendation, I went to the City Café for dinner, reputed to be a hangout for UN workers and other international types. I fell into conversation with three middle-aged Australian women who had just finished a two-week package tour of the island run by Melbourne-based Intrepid Travel. They loved Timor, too. When they heard that my project involved giving advice about tourism, they asked that I pass along some advice from their experience. ‘Tell them to put up mosquito net hooks in all the hotels and inns’ said one. ‘Oh, and they need better postcards. The ones they’ve got are appalling.’

I walked the unlit streets, anxious but unmolested, back to hotel. The biggest threat, it felt, came not from potential criminal activity but from the treacherous condition of the pavement. From then on, I’d never go out without a torch if I thought there was a chance I might return after dark.

Day 2

After breakfast and a morning meeting, my colleagues and I piled into a 4×4 for a spin around Dili. We requested first to be taken to the Santa Cruz Cemetery, where a peaceful protest became a scene of violent tragedy in November 1991 as Indonesian soldiers opened fire on the crowd. Though more than 250 people were killed, the massacre was captured on film by a foreign journalist. Broadcast globally, it became a turning point in the independence struggle. Santa Cruz got the world’s attention.

The Timorese, however, can’t really understand why visitors have any interest in seeing what for them is a) a place of tragedy and b) just a big cemetery. Frankly, I thought to myself as we walked among the gravestones, I’m not sure I can explain the interest either. Yet I know it’s genuine. It occurred to me at this point how important the ideas of hope and overcoming are to the Timorese story. In some ways, the tale of East Timor is like the Killing Fields of Cambodia but with a happier ending. Something extraordinary happened in Timor – and that’s interesting. And already, on the first morning of the trip, I found myself forecasting that people will come here to experience that.
________
We met that afternoon with a presidential adviser who impressed us. He knew what he was on about and also had a handle on the things that made Timor interesting: the variety of ethnic groups in such a small place, the idea of a Christian nation lying at the base of the Asian archipelago, the “point of connection” (his words, as I recall) between the South Pacific and South America. On the latter point, he had two striking observations. The first was the similarity between Timorese tais weavings and Central American weavings. The second was that when he went to New Zealand, if someone from the native Maori population spoke very slowly, he could understand what was being said, so great are the similarities between the Maori tongue and Timorese Tetum.

At Libya’s border with Tunisia and Algeria, Ghadames sits.

Or reclines, in a Bedouin kind of way. Lazily, I give you Lonely Planet:

“There’s nowhere on earth quite like Ghadames, which could just be our favourite place in Libya. The Unesco World Heritage-listed old city is a magical evocation of an idyllic caravan town of the Sahara – a palm-fringed oasis, the sense of an intricate maze, stunning traditional houses huddled together for company amid the empty spaces of the Sahara, and extensive covered walkways that keep the desert heat at bay.”

I think I liked most the post office (see photo above), where a member of departing caravans would search through bags hung on a hook in the passageway to see if any letters were bound for destinations along his anticipated route. And the lookout (see photo), from where someone would scan for signs of approaching caravans; like sailors on a sea of sand, the Ghadamsis wanted always to know what was on the horizon.

* * *

In the carpet-bedecked tent for tourists at the base of the dunes I lie on cushions. Several black men in traditional Tuareg nomad garb tend to tea trays near the entrance, conversing in Arabic (or is it Berber? Or even Tuareg?). Now, for some years I’ve maintained a habit, which I highly recommend, of travelling with old novels set in the place I’m visiting. From my pack I extract 1939′s Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Exupery (who wrote The Little Prince as his last literary act before being shot down by Germans off France’s Mediterranean coast; he was an aviator with the Aeropostale). At random, I crack it open – you will not believe me – to this passage:

“Then the slave, without a word, fills the stove with dry twigs, blows on the glowing embers, fills the kettle, setting in motion for a girl’s task muscles that would uproot a cedar. He is untroubled. Absorbed in the sequence of actions: brew the tea, look after the dromedaries, eat. March under the burning of the day towards the night, and long under the chill of the naked stars for the burning of the day. Happy are the northern lands whose seasons can compose a legend of snow in summer and a legend of sun in winter; sad are the tropics where in the sweating-room nothing really changes, but happy too is this Sahara where day and night swing men so simply from one hope to the other.”

The weather, on this mid-winter early evening however, is balmy, warmish, neither hot nor cold; I’m very comfortable in a T-shirt and trousers. The tea is sweet, like I like it, and poured from a height so it froths like cappuccino. The bread is hot and fresh, and the sand baked into it squelches against my tooth enamel as I chew.

* * *

In the hotel lobby, I bump into the US defence attaché, visiting from Tripoli with his family for the weekend. I ask something I’ve been wondering all week: “So is Libya all right now as far as we Yanks are concerned?” “We’re still keeping an eye on them.” But assuming the government here continues to straighten up, I think, just give ten years to this expansive, stable, storied, oil-rich and well-located territory of 5 million inhabitants and it will become what my old boss Kudlow used to refer to as ‘a real country’. One of a handful in Africa.

Inshallah (god willing).

Your humble correspondent,
Jeremy

PS  Though I felt surrounded by the mystique of camels since arriving here, the closest I actually got to one, funnily enough, was in the lunch I ate in one of the Ghadames’ traditional houses. If my guide (whose name was Mohammad Ali; he trained not as a boxer but as an air traffic controller) hadn’t pointed this out, I’d have thought it was tender and mild stewed lamb.

Isn’t it terrific?

It’s on a little giveaway folder with sand inside.

Point:

There was outrage a few years ago when Nottingham came up with a logo and it didn’t feature Robin Hood. I understood that.

In terms of icons or recognizable design features, most places have nothing. If you’re lucky enough to have something, maybe you should use it. And if you use it, render it with charm…with wit…with class…with colour…but NOT with mannered casualness: brush-stroked letterforms or anything with a sun is out, out, out. Unless you’re Spain. And even then I have a secret: I’ve never been much for the Miró thing. Or maybe it’s just been ruined by countless imitations.

Take, for example, this scene in Vilnius (where I am delighted to be living for the summer), which I photographed while jogging today.

It is a normal scene, a bit of urban decay, some concrete blight. Very common around here. You might think to yourself, “Those poor kids [the ones barely visible at the lower right] grow up playing in such ugly, rundown parks.”

True enough. But I knew, only because I happened to discover it two days ago, that that ugly cement mound is a plinth, upon which used to be this monument to Soviet partisans who terrorized the country with Stalin’s sponsorship:

When Lithuania got its independence in 1991, this statue and dozens like it were dismantled — immediately and with fervour — and a large number wound up in Gruto Parkas in southern Lithuania, where they are now a tourist attraction (and where the above photograph was taken, not by me).

So, yes, this local park is a bit on the ugly side. But those kids are growing up in a free country, as EU citizens.

Typing this now, I remember walking through the Killing Fields in 2002 and seeing Cambodian children splashing happily in the rainwater that had half-filled a pit which used to be a mass open grave. It was a scene of awful poverty — yet so much better than the historical alternative.

I guess my point is that without knowing the fuller context of things, sometimes your eyes play tricks on you, and you don’t really see what you’re looking at. If you’re an innocent kid, that’s so much the better. But if you’re a consultant like me, or an interested traveller, it’s worth bearing in mind.