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BBC News
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- BBC News
Whatever, Noel! Nukannguaq Zeeb is Greenland's football Rock 'n' Roll Star
Noel Gallagher, Ed Sheeran, Elton John and Snoop Dogg - they all talk a great game of football, but can they really kick it?Are they scoring winning penalties to win a national championship? Of course not, only in their dreams and aside rock gods... and meet Nukannguaq 43-year old singer-songwriter leads one of Greenland's most popular bands, Tulleriit, where he blends lyrics of peace and positivity with luxurious soundscapes cultivated from the unique environment he grew up in.'Sumiuuguit apeqqutaanngilaq assigiippugummi qungujukkuit'.'It doesn't matter where you are from, we all smile in the same language'.And yes, Zeeb did score the final, crucial spot-kick for his team G-44 to win the Greenlandic Football Championship in 2011. And he's still playing in the tournament in the eve of the championship, which dates back to 1954, Zeeb tells me how tough it can be to become title winners on the largest island on earth, with terrain hardly suited to the beautiful game."This year I am the player-coach for G-44. We are based in Qeqertarsuaq (575 miles north of the capital, Nuuk) and we have a 'new' team, full of young players, including my 16-year-old son. I'm satisfied with our level, I think you will see us progress to the semi-finals and then we'll see how it goes."We are from a small town, around 850 people, so it's not always easy to build a good team. In the championship you may need up to 20 players in a squad, as we have matches almost every day for a week. We need really good substitutes if we have injuries or our starting players are tired." 'We are on the right path, despite the set-backs' The Greenlandic Football Championship is a unique tournament. This year 10 teams will gather in Nuuk, to first play a group stage, then knockouts. It can only be held in a week-long window in high summer, because of the island's difficult weather conditions and arduous travel Nuuk Stadium will host 20 games over a six-day period, with just one rest day, as long standing rivalries are renewed. Kissaviarsuk-33, duly named after being formed in 1933, are Greenland's oldest active club. They last won the national title in football in Greenland takes place indoors, as futsal, and the national futsal side have a growing global reputation, travelling to Brazil earlier this year for a mini-tournament. The women's futsal team were in Poland for a similar adventure last picture for the 11-a-side game is more challenging. Last month Greenland were rejected for membership of Concacaf, which could have allowed them to enter Fifa World Cup qualifying. The fight for recognition goes Kleist, president of the Greenlandic Football Association (KAK) feels they are on the right path, despite the recent set-back."We are working on a few options, and we hope there will be news concerning that development in the autumn. In October, we will go to Vienna, and play the national amateur teams from Austria and Slovenia," he said."We will play international matches in the Fifa windows, so it's looking promising for our A team and youth level teams in the year ahead. In June 2026 we are planning to host the first official match in the Arctic region.""It's so bad we are being rejected," says Zeeb. "I am also an assistant coach for the national team, and we hope so much for other options to play in World Cup qualifying. As soon as possible."For now, he'll concentrate on the domestic scene, and earning G-44 a first title since he was that penalty hero 14 years ago. Since then, Nuuk powerhouses B-67 have won eight of the 11 championships, with Nagdlunguaq-48 (twice) and Inuit Timersoqatigiiffiat-79 taking the other crowns."Growing up, I played football with my brothers almost every day," Zeeb says. "I first played in the national championship in 1999, as a teenager. My father was the coach."The standards in Greenlandic football really changed when we got artificial pitches to play on, rather than gravel. The level of skill and tactics just get better and better." 'Be careful with life, and be grateful' Kleist, when asked for his favourite memory of the championship, has no hesitation in picking out events from 2022."The two biggest teams in Greenlandic club football historically, N-48 from Ilulissat and B-67 met in the final."B-67 was leading 1-0 until stoppage time, then N-48 levelled in the final minute."In extra time B-67 took the lead again, but N-48 scored in the 122nd minute - and the match went to penalties."The dramatic shoot-out in front of a record crowd in Ilulissat ended 6-5 to N-48, and the home team's fans invaded the pitch."Aqi Ludvigsen, KAK General Secretary, when asked what makes the championship in Greenland so special, reveals an answer that could make the basis for a Tulleriit song."Our football pride refers to the feeling of love, loyalty, and respect that our nation have toward to our sport," he tells me."It's often associated with a sense of belonging, identity, and shared history or culture. People may express national pride through symbols like flags, anthems, national holidays or unity like coming together during moments of triumph or failure."Much like Oasis, Tulleriit is a family affair, with the three Zeeb brothers having released three albums, and playing live shows."The message in my songs is about never giving up, being careful with life, and being grateful," Zeeb says. "To be positive even when some days are not easy.""When I was younger I listened to Oasis, now I like many of Ed Sheeran's songs, plus Coldplay and Pink."Sheeran may have recently played out a sold-out show at Portman Road, home of his beloved Ipswich Town, and he may have a squad number, but when it comes to actually putting the ball in the net for real, under pressure, Greenland's music maestro is the one with ice in his Sport will be in Nuuk covering the Greenlandic Football Championship for the first time. A documentary following events will be released later in the year.
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Travel + Leisure
15-07-2025
- Travel + Leisure
HX Expeditions Partners With Greenlandic Chef so Guests Can Experience Local Ingredients and New Arctic Cuisine on Its Sailings
Once a remote frontier reserved for only the most intrepid travelers, Greenland is quickly stepping into the spotlight. The opening of the long-anticipated international airport in Nuuk, the island's capital, has made this vast, ice-covered territory more accessible than ever. ( Travel + Leisure even named Greenland one of the best places to travel in 2025.) As more travelers arrive, so do the familiar questions about how to grow tourism without diluting what makes a place special. Local communities, businesses, and, increasingly, tour operators, are treading with care. Adventure cruise company HX Expeditions is among those taking a more intentional approach. Its new collaboration with Greenlandic chef Inunnguaq Hegelund spotlights the country's often-overlooked culinary traditions through an on board dining program featuring local ingredients and stories. HX's senior corporate operational executive chef David J. McDonald Greves calls Hegelund a pioneer of New Arctic cuisine. "As a skilled hunter, fisherman, and chef, he brings deep knowledge of local practices and a passion for showcasing what the Arctic has to offer," McDonald Greves told T+L. "His belief in using sustainably sourced and locally caught and farmed ingredients aligns perfectly with our mission at HX. This partnership allows us to tell Greenland's culinary story through authentic voices, while also supporting a broader movement that is putting Arctic cuisine on the global map." Hegelund was just 5 years old when he hauled in his first catch—a hefty cod pulled from the waters off Paamiut, a southwestern Greenland town where he was born and raised. By 9, he was learning to hunt reindeer with a rifle under the watchful eye of his uncle. His childhood was defined by wild flavors: eating seabird brains, fish crisped over open flames, and plucking berries straight from the tundra. Yet the most unexpected turn in his early culinary story didn't happen in the wilderness; it started in his mother's kitchen. Around the age of 10, he kept pestering his mom to bake cakes. Eventually worn down by the requests, she handed over a recipe and that moment sparked a lifelong interest in the kitchen. Ironically, baking didn't stick—today, it's one of his least favorite things to do. But that early experiment opened a door: by 14, he was washing dishes in a local restaurant, and a few years later, he was enrolled in culinary school. Today, Hegelund stands at the forefront of New Arctic Kitchen—a growing movement that blends Indigenous knowledge with modern techniques to spotlight the culinary heritage of Greenland and the wider Arctic region. His personal approach is rooted in sustainability, food sovereignty, and cultural preservation. "I hope to bring an understanding of our food culture and traditions," he told T+L. "Many people can't understand it because they live in a very industrialized world where they get everything in a bag. Greenlanders are still connected to nature—something you don't see in many places. Here, we have other values that we have to really take care of. Our world is getting more and more modernized so, of course, it's dangerous for our food culture and traditions." A portrait of Chef Inunnquaq Hegelund. Hegelund calls his homeland "the wildest kitchen in the world"—and for good reason. Nothing is cultivated. Nothing is farmed. Even sourcing something as seemingly simple as halibut can mean braving -40 degree temperatures in the depths of winter, heading out by dog sled to frozen ice fields, and hauling up fish by hand. "If I need musk ox, I have to go into the mountains for days to get my meat," Hegelund said. "And that's with everything. We don't have any cultivated fish or shellfish. Everything is wild and you don't see that in many places anymore." That reverence for nature and the culture around hunting begins early. Newborns join elders on trips into the wild—it's an early introduction to a way of life where self-sufficiency is passed down like a language. By the time children reach their teens, many embark on their first independent hunt, which is then celebrated with a kaffemik —a gathering of family, friends, and neighbors to feast on whatever the new hunter brings home. In Greenland, sustainability is not a trend; it's a way of life. People have always lived in balance with nature, with deep respect for the elements and a commitment to passing on a healthy environment to future generations. — David J. McDonald Greves Hegelund explained that hunting is such an everyday part of life that hunting rifles are often sold in shops alongside candy and bread. But unlike many parts of the world, hunting in Greenland is an essential lifeline. Whaling, for example, remains a cornerstone of both cultural heritage and food security for people living on more remote parts of the island. (Hunters are required to hold a license and follow strict quotas; the regulations keep the ecosystem in balance while still allowing Indigenous communities to maintain their way of life.) 'We have so much respect for animals and nature. We know there's only one boss in Greenland: nature," Hegelund said, adding that animals are never taken for granted. "We use all of the animal, from the skin to the bone." Even after two decades in the kitchen, Hegelund still sees himself as a student of nature. "There's always something new. While I know a lot, I still have a lot to learn." From Left: The beef entree on the tasting menu; Chef Inunnquaq Hegelund. Hegelund's partnership with HX lets the chef take his food philosophy to the seas. He noted the menu leans more New Arctic with Greenlandic ingredients. "When you make traditional Greenlandic food, you need raw, fermented foods and ingredients that are not allowed on the ship," he told T+L. HX Expedition's cultural ambassador Niels Sanimuinaq Rasmussen—a native of Ittoqqortoormiit, a remote town in East Greenland—sees the cruise line's culinary program as an opportunity to ease guests into Greenlandic cuisine, one plate at a time. "Food is the one way we understand each other best," Rasmussen said. "The new offerings are a small drip feed, as it introduces you to new flavors in a controlled level. The menu is an evolution of Greenlandic food." HX's four-course tasting menu made its debut aboard the MS Fridtjof Nansen on May 24, 2025 under the helm of Hegelund. Throughout the sailing season, a rotating roster of local guest chefs—Laasi Biilmann, Jørgine Tobiassen, and Eli Nuka Johansson—is joining Hegelund, who said the group represents the present and future of Greenlandic cuisine. The meal opens with scallop terrine—delicately topped with fennel crudités, sour onions, and apple—followed by a rich Greenlandic snow crab bisque. For the main course, diners choose between locally sourced South Greenlandic lamb or a beef dish served with beetroot, salt-baked onion, and an herb butter emulsion. Rounding out the meal is a Greenlandic apple cake accompanied with a salted caramel sauce, vanilla ice cream, and a cocoa cracker. Each course tells a story. The apple cake, for example, pays homage to how the local cuisine has adapted over time. Hegelund said Greenlandic cuisine didn't historically have desserts. Early sweet treats were often a mix of berries with Angelica (an aromatic herb), or even seaweed and animal fat. The introduction of flour brought dry cakes to Greenland, and applesauce arrived only in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Even the inclusion of beef on the menu marks a milestone. Musk ox has long been a staple in Greenlandic kitchens, but the beef on board is sourced from the only cattle farmer in the entire country, located in the southern town of Narsaq. 'It's all really new. You're some of the first guests in the world to eat Greenlandic cow,' Hegelund said. Sustainability and local collaboration are at the core of the program, as 30 percent of the ingredients are sourced directly from Greenlandic producers. "At HX, we see sustainability as long-term optimization—strengthening local economies, fostering community engagement, and minimizing environmental and cultural impact," McDonald Greves told T+L. "In Greenland, sustainability is not a trend; it's a way of life. People have always lived in balance with nature, with deep respect for the elements and a commitment to passing on a healthy environment to future generations." Part cultural immersion, part culinary experience, HX's program deepens the connection between travelers and the land they've come to explore. "I hope guests leave with a deeper appreciation for the unique flavors and ingredients of Greenland, along with a richer understanding of the country's culture and culinary traditions," McDonald Greves added. "With local Greenlandic chefs on board to cook, educate, and share the stories behind each dish, the goal is to deliver an unforgettable culinary journey that highlights Greenland's rich food heritage."
The Guardian
15-07-2025
- The Guardian
The shining: my trip to the G7 summit with Emmanuel Macron
Nuuk, the capital of Greenland, is a small jumble of orange prefab buildings and low grey apartment blocks nestled on a stony outcrop on the edge of the ocean. There are no trees, but there's a hill topped by the statue of Hans Egede, the Danish-Norwegian missionary who evangelised the world's biggest island in the 18th century and which, as such, is threatened with removal by Inuit anti-colonialists. It was at his feet that I awaited the helicopters bringing back the Greenlandic prime minister, Jens-Frederik Nielsen, the Danish prime minister, Mette Frederiksen, and the French president, Emmanuel Macron – referred to throughout this trip as 'PR', short for président de la république – from their excursion on the ice. I was hoping I could also get on one of those helicopters, and I thought I had it in the bag when, as the delegation was being split between the chosen ones who would accompany PR in the air and the rest, Macron shot me one of those telling winks he often gives, so unexpectedly, to those who come into his field of view. I quickly returned to my senses: there are many seats on a plane, very few in a helicopter, and this was a PR+3 event, meaning PR plus three other people, which was out of my reach. As an embedded writer travelling with the French delegation to the G7 – the summit of the richest and, in theory, most democratic countries, which is being held this year in Canada – I started having a chance at about PR+6 or 7, which wasn't too bad. While waiting for the head of state to return, the mid-level members of the French delegation found a hangar equipped with wifi to work in. They work all the time and, as a diplomatic adviser told me, don't get jet lag because they hardly ever sleep. As for parasites like me, and the photographers who've got nothing to do while PR's away, we kicked around Nuuk, perspiring in our down jackets and moon boots because we'd been told it would be below freezing while it was actually a balmy 10C (86F) out. Only a few months ago, Macron would never have got it into his head to visit Greenland. In fact, no one really cared much about Greenland until Donald Trump let it be known that, like Canada, it was destined to become American. There's a 'good possibility', he said, that Greenland could be annexed 'without military force', adding: 'I don't take anything off the table.' In this context, it was what political communicators call a 'strong gesture' on Macron's part to stop in Nuuk for a few hours on his way to the G7 and address the 200-300 people who'd turned out to listen to him, his voice alternately stirring and cajoling, his words peppered with skilfully placed pauses the Greenlanders have not yet had time to grow tired of. Hating Macron is a national sport in France – one that I personally do not participate in. Here, on the other hand, people were crazy about him. Ten days earlier they didn't necessarily know who he was, but on the day of his visit, Nuuk looked every bit like a hotbed of fervent Macronists. His presence brought solace, and the crowd's enthusiasm reached its peak when, after a resounding 'Qujanaq!' ('thank you' in Greenlandic), he declared first that Greenland is neither up for sale, nor up for grabs (prolonged cheers, as if he'd said 'Ich bin ein Grönländer'), then that as a sign of unwavering solidarity France will open a consulate in Nuuk (somewhat less enthusiastic cheers), and finally that his helicopter trip with the two prime ministers had allowed him to observe up close the effects of global heating – to which Greenland, whose entire population lives on the narrow coastal strip of a gigantic glacier that is melting at an alarming rate, is particularly exposed. In the succession of brief speeches, the three leaders outdid one another in their use of the word 'climate' – five times for Macron – but I didn't yet have a feel for just how provocative such seemingly banal statements could be. When the speeches were done, a journalist asked PR how far his solidarity would extend if Trump invaded Greenland, and he answered with a hint of impatience that he didn't want to waste his time speculating on questions that were not currently on the table. Almost seven years earlier, in September 2017, I'd travelled on the presidential plane with Macron, I was profiling for the Guardian. It was at the start of his first term in office, and everything seemed to be going well for him. We were heading to Saint Martin, an overseas territory in the Caribbean that had recently been ravaged by a hurricane, and then to Athens, where Macron gave a pivotal speech on European civilisation. In hindsight, those times seem almost carefree, when you consider that our journey to the G7 was taking place against the backdrop of war in Ukraine, the systematic destruction of Gaza, a now irreversible ecological disaster and, for the previous two days, Israeli strikes on Iran which some considered a prelude to World War III. All this made me wonder if, in another seven years, we'll look back with nostalgia on our current calamities, so wanton and unstoppable does the chaos seem to have become. In my notes from 2017 I found these words by Macron: 'If we weren't at a tragic moment in our history, I would never have been elected. I'm not made to lead in calm weather. My predecessor [the jovial socialist François Hollande] was, but I'm made for storms.' On the plane, I showed it to him. 'Well, here we are,' he said with a smile. On the domestic front it must be said that Macron did nothing to calm the storm when he decided a year ago to dissolve the National Assembly – a political electroshock that he no doubt saw as a kill or cure approach to his unpopularity, unprecedented in the history of the Fifth Republic, but which left the country if not totally ungovernable, then at least even more difficult to govern than usual, and in any case more difficult for him to govern. But PR being PR – meaning little inclined to self-criticism – he remains convinced that history will prove him right. At most, as he admitted in his last New Year's address, his decision had not been understood and he bore some of the responsibility for this misunderstanding, without saying who bore the rest. Whatever his difficulties on the home front, however, foreign policy traditionally remains the preserve of the French president, and one could reasonably argue that although he's toast at home, Macron thrives on the international stage. 'Good career move,' Gore Vidal is said to have remarked on hearing that Truman Capote had died. In the same way, the global mayhem is proving to be an exceptional career boost for Macron – given that there's a position to be filled at the head of Europe. In any case that's how he sees it, and in fact, during the time I spent with him, he did seem to be in fine form. I had imagined that my second portrait of him would be very different from the first, the fall of the Roman empire after its heyday, especially as some had told me that he was now gloomy, tormented, abandoned by all, his nails bitten to the quick, wandering through the corridors of a presidential palace where decisions are no longer taken. For my part, I saw nothing so Shakespearean. He seemed relatively unchanged, apart from the fact that he's clearly taken to pumping iron and that, in a tight-fitting black T-shirt – his outfit on the plane – he displayed some quite impressive biceps, which he wasn't content just to display but kneaded with visible satisfaction. Otherwise he's still cool, quick on the uptake, available, his blue eyes fixed on yours, his hand clasping yours and only letting go reluctantly, and while I'm ready to believe that deep down (I'm always surprised to hear him use this teenage expression, 'deep down') he's arrogant, self-centred and not interested in anyone, on the surface at least (which, in my opinion, does not mean that it's fake), he's still as attentive as ever, still as much there for the person he's talking to, still singling them out from the crowd. That's a politician's trait, I know: making you feel that you're the only one who counts, that if he got on the plane it was to enjoy your company to the full, and that he knows you better than you know yourself. But he takes it to extremes, and everyone who's had any dealings with him can tell one anecdote or another that illustrates it in an almost supernatural way. Here's mine. The presidential plane is divided into four sections. At the front is PR's suite, to which he alone has access. Next is a lounge where, at his bidding, a dozen people can sit at a large oval table for a work session, a drink or even a light meal. (Macron himself seems to eat nothing but pecans.) Next comes a business cabin for the inner circle, PR+18, and finally the rear of the plane, for security, logistics and journalists. I was in the PR+18 cabin and on the three-day trip I was invited to the oval table three times, where I found PR in the mood to talk about French films from yesteryear. Not the Nouvelle Vague, not Godard or Truffaut, no, but comedies and crime films by popular, heritage film-makers such as Henri Verneuil, Georges Lautner and Claude Lelouch that are rebroadcast time and again on TV. (English readers are unlikely to know them, but their unexportable British equivalents might be Nuts in May or Carry On Up the Jungle.) Macron, in any case, reeled off the dialogue, peppered with outdated slang, as ably as he cites the verses of the noblest figures of 20th-century French poetry, such as Yves Bonnefoy, Patrice de la Tour du Pin and Louis Aragon. There came a moment in this flow of cinematic and literary erudition when talk came around to the upcoming adaptation of The Wizard of the Kremlin, Giuliano da Empoli's novel about Putin's eminence grise Vladislav Surkov, for which I wrote the screenplay with film-maker Olivier Assayas. Jude Law plays Putin, and I took out my phone to show PR a photo of him in the role. 'Not bad,' Macron said, handing me back my phone, and for a moment I got the feeling he was annoyed that Jude Law is portraying Putin and not him. But why, he asked, did I write the screenplay? Why not Giuliano? (He said 'Giuliano'.) I replied that the author of a book isn't necessarily the best person to adapt it for the cinema, he lacks distance, I myself don't collaborate on adaptations of my books. Macron raised an eyebrow: 'But you adapted Class Trip with Claude Miller, didn't you?' Now what you have to know is that Class Trip, based on my novel of the same name, came out almost 30 years ago. I think it's a beautiful film but it wasn't a success, critically or commercially. If you did a survey of 10 of my friends maybe one or two would have seen it, and aside from my agent who drew up the contract, none would be able to say whether or not I collaborated on the screenplay. 'No surprise there,' people say when I tell them this anecdote about PR, 'he's given notes on everyone he talks to, that's all.' No. Or if that's the explanation, it's even more remarkable than the fact itself. Assuming Macron took the time to review a file on me, it would have to be 15 pages long to include a detail like that. Amazed, I asked: 'How on earth do you know that?' He replied: 'I sleep little but well. That leaves me time to watch films.' A loan word from Himalayan mountaineering where it refers to the guides, the term has become established in international summit meetings: the sherpa prepares the terrain and accompanies the head of state. Since 2019, Emmanuel Bonne has been Macron's sherpa and head of the Elysée's diplomatic unit, making him a less public but far more important figure than the various foreign ministers who've succeeded one another from one government to the next (that's my opinion, he'd never say so himself, of course). A career diplomat and Middle East expert, Bonne is an elegant man in his 50s with a clear, deep voice who, maintaining the direct and friendly style used around PR, says he applies the Jesuit watchword perinde ac cadaver ('corpse-like obedience') in his dealings with him. (At least that's what he said to me, perhaps because he assumes that as a writer I'm familiar with Latin and Ignatius of Loyola. With others he's more blunt and says he's a diehard public servant.) During the second part of the trip, between Nuuk and Calgary at the foot of the Canadian Rockies, I asked Bonne to explain what was at stake at the summit, and this is what I jotted down. When President Valéry Giscard d'Estaing initiated the G7 – then the 'Group of Six', or G6 – in 1975, the countries that took part (the US, France, UK, Germany, Italy and Japan) accounted for about 75% of global GDP. Today that figure has dropped to roughly 35%. 'We were the chairman of the board,' Bonne sums up. 'Now, we're not even majority shareholders.' That makes it all the more crucial for these countries, if they're not to disappear completely from the scene, to find a solution or at least agree on a position concerning one or other of the major issues facing the planet: Ukraine, the Middle East, the environment, tariffs – it doesn't matter which, there's no shortage of elephants in the room. The aim of the summit, then, was to produce a joint declaration that simply expresses a political will, a direction, shared objectives. Normally this shouldn't be too difficult, but it's become so since Trump 2, particularly when it comes to the climate. Until now, saying that global heating is a major threat and that halting it is an absolute priority was as uncontroversial as saying that you're against war, for peace, for reducing inequality, etc. Once that was said, you did or didn't act on your words, but it cost nothing to proclaim them. Those days are over. As the master of the world thinks that the climate isn't a problem, there's no putting it on the agenda, even as a pious wish. Even the word 'climate' has become taboo. Aware that there was little room for manoeuvre, the Canadians, who were hosting this year's G7, decided from the outset that there would be no joint declaration and only a kind of neutral summary, with every word weighed on a scale and, as far as possible, emptied of meaning. Already faced with the cruel obligation of hosting as a guest of honour someone who has made no bones about wanting to make their country the 51st state, the Canadians were further traumatised by memories of the previous G7 summit held on their soil seven years earlier, which could not have gone worse. Trump 1 got angry and stormed out before the end, refusing to sign the joint declaration and accusing his host, Justin Trudeau, of being 'weak' and 'dishonest'. Terrified at the thought of something like that happening again, the Canadians were ready to kowtow. What's more, in general it's become an aim in itself for the six members of the club of former masters of the world to keep the damage to a minimum with the seventh. At the same time they must remind everyone they're still here and, all the while kowtowing, they puff out their chests as best they can. Now I understand better why Macron hammered home the word 'climate' with such insistence back in Nuuk. The exercise, Bonne recapped over a snack at the oval table (radishes, little salmon and cucumber sandwiches, all the pecans you can eat), is 'to make ourselves heard without giving the impression that we're mocking Trump'. Macron nonchalantly responded to this cautious plea for boldness with a scoop: 'I called him yesterday morning and told him we were going to Greenland.' 'And?' 'And he said: 'Great! Very good idea. Tell them I only want what's good for them.'' Although English makes no distinction between the informal tu and the formal vous, Macron, in his dealings with Trump – or rather in his accounts of his dealings with Trump – has opted for informal language. He puts all his social skills into setting himself up as the leader of Europe in the age of Trump 2, and as someone who knows Trump well and can make shrewd and unexpected observations about his character ('He's not touchy in the least,' he said, 'and as long as you're open to give-and-take, he's anything but egotistical') – in short, as someone who knows how to handle the beast. This is not untrue, and what's more, even though Macron is still young (47), in terms of presidential longevity he's the most senior of the leaders set to attend the G7. He belongs to the very exclusive club of those now in their second term. Bonne recalled that in one of his more expansive moments, Trump himself tapped Macron on the shoulder and said: 'You'll see, you and me, we'll do a third.' The French constitution, like the Russian one, prohibits three consecutive presidential mandates, but you can seek a third provided you've taken a pass for one term: that's what Putin did when he handed over the reins to a closely watched Dmitry Medvedev for four years, and Macron is increasingly open about his intention to do the same and run for office again in 2032. This is not provided for in the US constitution, on the other hand, but Trump has already warned that that's no reason to deprive the world of his brilliance, that a constitution is not set in stone and that patriotic lawyers are already looking for a solution. When I woke up in my room at the Lodges at Canmore near Kananaskis, a tiny Alberta village popular with hikers, it was 4am. Macron was already out jogging, but I, not having done my training at the Elysée's diplomatic unit, was wiped from jet lag. It was in this state of disorientation that I remembered the following. When his stepdaughters were little, science fiction author Philip K Dick invented a variation of Monopoly for them, aimed at making the endless buying of buildings in the game they loved a little less boring. In this variation the banker is called the Rat, and instead of merely acting as sort of referee, he has the discretionary power to change the rules of the game whenever he wants, however he pleases, without anyone being able to question his dictates. It's a perpetual clean slate, pure dictatorship, the negation of law and order. For a game to be successful, it's in the players' best interests to choose the most vicious and inventive participant as the Rat. A Rat worthy of the name must know how to mete out the torment he inflicts on the players, let them believe that his arbitrary decisions follow a plan, balance cruel disappointments and fickle encouragements, tear them away from everything they're used to in Monopoly and – without losing their interest – plunge them into chaos. When, at 8am, after passing through several checkpoints on a mountain road set against a magnificent landscape, we, PR+6 and more members of the delegation, arrived at the huge, isolated hotel – which brought to mind the Overlook Hotel in The Shining – where the summit itself was taking place, I realised that I had come all this way to witness a spectacular game of the Rat. Dressed in dark suits and ties for the men (an overwhelming majority), and sober trouser suits for the women, 1,500 of us paced back and forth from one lounge to another, through corridors lined with carpets also straight out of the Overlook Hotel. A photographer I'd palled up with made a joke: 'Imagine the doors of the elevator open and you see two Trumps come out – twins.' We did a lot of milling around and a lot of waiting, the game for the small fry like me being to bypass the various security guards and go through doors that were, in theory, closed to the likes of us. This is how, by literally clinging to Emmanuel Bonne, I gained access to the large salon (PR+4) where the six normal leaders were waiting for the seventh to descend from his Olympus. In fact, only five of the six were there: Friedrich Merz, the German chancellor, was also missing. They couldn't start without him, let alone without Trump, so they chatted, the usual pleasantries turning into increasingly disjointed small talk. Mark Carney, the Canadian prime minister, had the anxious look on his face of a host who repeats a little too insistently that everything is fine, perfectly fine. Shigeru Ishiba, the Japanese prime minister, listened idly as Italian PM Giorgia Meloni told him about her daughter's passion for manga. I wondered if, one-on-one with the Australian or Spanish prime ministers, she'd have gone on about her daughter's passion for surfing or bullfighting. Who's to say. I know that Meloni is considered to be on the far right and that one shouldn't say nice things about her, but let's just say that this petite blond woman stood out at the G7 for her vivacious brusqueness and her dress code that made no concessions to the ubiquitous grey. Amid the austere suits, her lightweight sky-blue attire looked almost like beach wear. As the minutes passed, more and more slowly it seemed, people started wondering where Merz could be. Had he panicked? Fled? The delay had already lasted a good half-hour – a long time for an event scheduled to last no more than 36 hours in all. Finally, the two appeared, Merz tall, slim and grey, with body language that did little to clarify whether he was in the role of hostage or chosen one, Trump true to his image – midnight blue suit, red tie, orange face, thick-set body, only the wisp of a smile. Two leaders talking one-on-one before the official opening of the summit is totally against protocol, Bonne whispered in my ear, an open and deliberate affront, certainly not in the style of poor Merz, an old-school Christian Democrat, the frail and wobbly bulwark against a German far-right already endorsed by the US vice-president, JD Vance. Trump had used Merz to send the usual message: I do what I want. As to what happened next, I'll spare you the pleasantries, the welcome speeches and the photocall. Soon the first plenary discussion began, which only the sherpas (PR+1) were allowed to attend, but I had access to the press room where you can see and hear everything as if you were sitting at the table. Kicking things off, Trump said that all this talk was meaningless in the absence of Putin – excluded from the club by that incompetent Obama after the annexation of Crimea in 2014 – a message he repeated in an increasingly grim tone every time anyone dared to send a comment his way. Taking his cue from Carney, Macron acted as if things were off to a great start and valiantly argued for a trade and tariff agreement that would be beneficial for all parties. Coming to his aid, Meloni suddenly pulled two world maps from her bag and showed them to Trump, saying: 'Look, Donald: all of this, in blue, is us 20 years ago, when we were still in charge. And this in red is trade today, ie mainly China. So it would be better if we, the blues, could reach an agreement between us against the reds, because the question now is no longer so much who we let in, but how not to get kicked out.' Her tirade over, she nodded vigorously in approval of herself. And as I was starting to find her increasingly likable, I asked myself an embarrassing question: if I weren't French, if I observed her from a distance, would I find Marine Le Pen likable, too? In any case, one thing you can say about Meloni is that she's the least poker-faced person imaginable: when something amuses her she bursts out laughing, if something bores her she rolls her eyes and lets out a huge sigh. After an hour and a half, as expected, we'd got nowhere. Trump condescended to quip to Keir Starmer: 'You say you're a democracy but that's not true: you've got a king.' Starmer laughed a little obsequiously, relieved like someone who's been struck by lightning once and is unlikely to be struck again. He was wrong: a few hours later, standing with Trump outside the hotel, the latter let a sheaf of papers slip from a folder, scattering them on the ground, and as he made no move to pick them up, it was Starmer who, after a moment's hesitation, bent down and literally knelt at the master's feet – a devastating image that of course went around the world. Afterwards in smaller rooms there were a few bilats – as bilateral discussions between two leaders are called. I attended the ones between Macron and Starmer and then Macron and Carney: they made little impression on me. At the end of the afternoon, Macron held an impromptu press conference outside the hotel. Asked if he approved of the Israeli strikes on Iran and the prospect of a regime change in Tehran, he replied that however detestable the regime may be, revolutions imposed from outside rarely end well. Just look at Iraq and Libya. 'How do you intepret [Trump's] apparent sudden departure from the G7?' the journalist went on. Most of us present at this exchange weren't aware that Trump had left, and the announcement left us stunned. For a moment Macron himself seemed taken aback. 'I think,' he said, 'he's gone to negotiate a ceasefire between Iran and Israel.' Macron's intention, in my opinion, was to politely clear Trump of accusations that he'd been boorish and had a temper tantrum, but the lightning strike was not long in coming. Arriving in Washington a few hours later, Trump said he hadn't been going to negotiate a ceasefire but something 'much bigger' (which was true: after three days of hesitation, the US joined the war alongside Israel). Trump added that while Macron is a 'nice guy', he's 'publicity seeking' and, later, that he 'doesn't get it right too often', to which Macron responded with a shrug and no hard feelings: this wasn't the first or last comment of its kind, a jibe between friends who get on well despite the odd squabble. (As Reagan put it when he was told in 1981 that Israel had just bombed an Iraqi nuclear reactor: 'Boys will be boys.') With the Rat gone, the tension subsided. We could breathe again but there was no denying that the game had lost some of its appeal. Even though the second day was no more than a half day it dragged on, which was all the crueller given that its star was Volodymyr Zelenskyy. Invited by the G7, he had travelled more than 3,000 miles just to see Trump and beg him once again not to completely abandon Ukraine, and Trump once again humiliated him, this time by leaving just before he arrived. At least, I assume that's what Trump must have believed, that he was humiliating Zelenskyy. Personally, I belong to those who think that a scene as appalling as the one that took place in February in the Oval Office only served to demean Trump and uplift Zelenskyy. I also think that, despite their difference in size, Zelenskyy outdoes Trump in courage and strength – including physical strength – and that in a normal world his normal reaction would have been quite simply to grab Trump by the lapels of his midnight blue suit and give his face a good head-butt. But we live under the unchallenged reign of the most vicious of Rats, Zelenskyy is fighting for a country at war, and for him heroism consists of enduring one insult after another and saying thank you. Gathered around him for the final plenary session, the other members of the G7 took advantage of Trump's absence to show Zelenskyy nothing but concern and understanding. When Merz said that the military approach is at an impasse and that what's needed now is to refine the sanctions, Zelenskyy replied that yes, of course, he's in favour of sanctions, but that while waiting for them to take effect Ukraine has to keep hold of its territory, so he needs weapons ('I need ammo', as always). Everyone nodded: we get you, Volodymyr, we're with you, Volodymyr, and of course Russia is the aggressor – a statement that is nowadays in the same 'provocative' category as saying that the climate crisis is real. Meloni summed up the general feeling by exclaiming: 'Don't kid yourselves, my friends. He [Putin] doesn't just want 20% of Volodymyr's country, he wants 100%, and he won't stop there. He wants to restore his empire. As if you [putting her hand on Macron's arm] wanted half the world because it used to be French colonies, or you [jerking her chin at Starmer, still reeling from the previous day] wanted the Commonwealth. And while we're at it, why don't I rebuild the Roman empire?' Macron smiled indulgently. My photographer friend said this morning: 'He's in seventh heaven now that Trump has split. Now he's the alpha male.' And in fact, with his arms crossed and his chest thrown back as if to take stock of the bigger picture, our PR had assumed with visible pleasure the role of the adult in the room. On the plane home a few hours later he had once again swapped his suit for a black T-shirt, which I noticed was emblazoned with a small owl, and this suddenly reminded me of the speech he'd given seven years before, an eternity ago, in Athens, on European civilisation. He quoted Hegel's observation that 'the owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the coming of dusk' – in other words, that any stage in history can only be properly understood when that moment has almost passed. He was pleased that I noticed this: of course the little owl wasn't on his T-shirt by chance. Of course – to repeat his much-mocked mantra – he wants to write history and understand it 'at the same time'. I scribbled down a few things he said to me during the last dinner at the oval table, so quickly in fact that I'm having a hard time reading them now. It was too noisy to record, everyone (PR+20, I'd say) was talking loudly, laughing loudly, everyone was a little euphoric from the adrenaline, the fatigue and because things hadn't gone too badly – even if, 'deep down', we had nothing to show: no joint declaration, not even the hint of a roadmap for anything at all. He talked about cognitive bubbles ('Of course Trump lives in a cognitive bubble, but so do I, so do you, that's something one has to be at least a little aware of'); the advantages and drawbacks of thinking in a 'contrarian' way – that is, in opposition to popular opinion ('Like an idiot I followed Javier Milei's X account, and when I read his posts I realise that I'm capable of agreeing with him'); and double standards, an obsession of his ('If things go on like this, between Ukraine and Gaza we'll end up losing what little credibility we have left. Europe will have missed its chance'). But what struck me most was what he said with sudden forcefulness about teens and teenagers – I don't remember how we got there: 'I was never a teenager. I don't like teenagers. I don't understand them [it's rare for Macron to say he doesn't understand something]. My wife understands them.' I thought to myself: he was a teenager when they met, and maybe if she hadn't understood teenagers he wouldn't be in his PR plane today, with his little owl of Minerva emblazoned on his black bodybuilder's T-shirt. And then, the final word before going to sleep – even him – for two or three hours. Apparently it was something his grandmother used to say, and those around him know it by heart and await it with a blend of complicit mirth and mild concern, because beneath its kindness lies a threat: 'OK, everyone to bed. Have the night you deserve.' Translated by John Lambert Listen to our podcasts here and sign up to the long read weekly email here.
Time of India
14-07-2025
- Business
- Time of India
Nuuk launches advanced REN PRO vacuum cleaner with Adaptive Suction Technology and 60-minute battery life
Nuuk has unveiled its most powerful vacuum cleaner yet, the REN PRO, featuring industry-leading 34kPA suction power and adaptive technology designed specifically for Indian households' daily dust challenges. The cord-free vacuum cleaner , priced at Rs 19,999, addresses key pain points in Indian homes including hard-to-reach corners, heavy dust accumulation, and the need for versatile cleaning solutions beyond traditional mopping methods. The REN PRO's standout feature is its Adaptive Suction Technology , which automatically adjusts power based on dust levels to optimize battery runtime. This addresses the common user tendency to operate vacuums at maximum suction unnecessarily, extending the device's 60-minute battery life across three cleaning modes. Central to the product's design is the FlexiStick, a bendable rod that allows users to clean under furniture and beds easily. The system includes eight modular attachments specifically engineered for Indian surfaces, from carpets to curtains and electronics. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like Giá vàng đang tăng mạnh trong năm 2025 — Các nhà giao dịch thông minh đã tham gia IC Markets Tìm hiểu thêm Undo Powered by a 500W BLDC motor, the vacuum features multi-layer HEPA and steel filtration to prevent secondary pollution. The 650ml dustbin includes built-in hair-cutting blades for hygienic emptying, while an intelligent touch display provides real-time battery and mode information. The device has received ISO 9001, BSCI, and RoHS certifications, ensuring international quality standards. "REN PRO is our answer to extensive consumer research, addressing real everyday challenges in Indian homes," said Co-Founder Gazal Kalra. "Every feature was engineered with user empathy." Available in Meteor Grey, the vacuum is now available on with the first 100 customers receiving a free Wet Mop Attachment worth INR 5,999. The product is also available on Amazon following its launch during the Prime Day sale period. Optional accessories include a custom storage bag and Deep Cleaning Kit , positioning the REN PRO as a comprehensive cleaning solution rather than just a vacuum cleaner.
The Independent
01-07-2025
- Business
- The Independent
Greenland wants to welcome new tourists. Just maybe not Trump
Greenland is extending an open invitation to the world, urging visitors to discover its unique culture and breathtaking landscapes. The mineral-rich Arctic island is actively promoting tourism, eager to share its distinct identity beyond recent political headlines. From exhilarating whale-watching tours to excursions to the iconic puffin island, and guided charters exploring remote settlements, Greenland offers a diverse array of experiences. These are just a glimpse of what the island has to offer those seeking adventure and cultural immersion. Locals are keen to showcase the island's true essence, moving past the diplomatic attention it received during discussions with U.S. President Donald Trump. Nukartaa Andreassen, who works for a water taxi company in the capital, Nuuk, encapsulated this sentiment: "Come visit Greenland. Learn about it, learn about us. We love to have you. We love to tell our stories and our culture." 'Our goal and mission is to present and be the ambassadors of Greenland,' said Casper Frank Møller, the chief executive of Nuuk -based tour guide company Raw Arctic, 'and to show what beauty you can experience while you're here.' The tourism industry is expected to see a boom this year following the launch of a new route between Nuuk and Newark, New Jersey. The inaugural flight June 14 was the first direct travel from the U.S. to Greenland by an American airline. How to travel to Greenland Before the direct flight, air passengers departing from the U.S. needed a layover in Iceland or Denmark to reach Greenland. The change benefited travelers like Doug Jenzen, an American tourist who was on the United Airlines plane from New Jersey. 'I came with the purpose of exploring some of the natural sites around the world's largest island, hoping to support things like ecotourism and sustainable travel while supporting the local economy,' Jenzen said. Cruise ships can already dock on the island but they bring less money to businesses catering to tourists because passengers sleep and usually eat on board. Some 150,000 tourists visited Greenland in 2024, according to Naaja Nathanielsen, Greenland's business minister. 'We really want to grow the tourism sector. It's a very good fit for many in Greenland,' Nathanielsen added. ' Tourism is about good vibes. It's about sharing culture, sharing history. It's about storytelling. And as Inuit, that's very much part of our heritage.' Greenland gained worldwide attention when Trump earlier this year announced he wanted to take control of the semiautonomous Danish territory, through a purchase or possibly by force. Denmark, a NATO ally, and Greenland have said the island is not for sale and condemned reports of the U.S. gathering intelligence there. Despite the diplomatic tension, Frank Møller of Raw Arctic sees an upside. 'It has kind of put Greenland on the world map. And it's definitely a situation that Raw Arctic has used to our advantage,' he said. Still, beefing up the tourism industry should happen at a pace that prioritizes the voices and comfort levels of the roughly 56,000 people on the island, he added. Andreassen, of Nuuk Water Taxi, agreed. 'It's very important for me to tell my own story. Because I always feel like when I meet new people, I always introduce a whole Greenland,' she said. 'It's important for me to show our own culture, our own nature. Not by television, not by other people from other countries." In June, Pinar Saatci, a 59-year-old Turkish tourist, saw several whales breach the ocean surface during a boat tour. 'It's very exciting to be here, at the other part of the world, so far away from home," she said. 'It's a very exciting and unforgettable moment.' Risskov Rejser has visited Greenland several times through her travel company for Danish travelers. But she is worried about the impact of a tourist invasion. 'For me, the worst thing would be if mass tourism starts and people come here, and sort of look upon the Greenland people as if they were a living museum," she said. "It has to be done in a respectful way and you have to consider what the consequences are.' ___ Stefanie Dazio in Berlin contributed to this report.
