Across the Great Divide   

Students and teachers alike learn lessons at a training conference for Serbian journalists.

IT WAS WELL AFTER 1 a.m., and cabs were hard to come by on the streets of Rome.
There had been a reception at the apartment of Bob Callahan, the U.S. Embassy's minister counselor for public affairs, then dinner at a fine Roman restaurant, then back to Callahan's for more conversation.
After I left, there were hordes of people waiting at the cabstand near the Pantheon. I tried a nearby hotel--nothing. As Callahan and I returned to the cabstand, we were flagged down by a couple of very agitated Serbian journalists. They had to be back at the hotel for a 5 a.m. pickup, and they had been frantically searching for taxis for quite some time, with zero success.
We were nearing the end of an unforgettable week, part journalism training, part cultural exchange, and, yeah, part just enjoying the glories of Italy.
I had been recruited by Callahan (my kind of diplomat: one who loves journalism and sports as well as geopolitics) and Amy Bliss (the unflappable and stunningly capable assistant cultural attaché) to put together a team of online journalism trainers. Our pupils were journalists, mostly from Serbia but also a handful from Kosovo and Montenegro. The actual training took place in Cassino.
Playing to my strengths, I lined up the talent and plunged into the schmoozing. The actual heavy lifting fell to Barb Palser, AJR's online columnist, who does training for a living for Internet Broadcasting Systems; and Chris Harvey, a former AJR managing editor now charged with upgrading the online curriculum at the Philip Merrill College of Journalism at the University of Maryland.
For the record, they were superb, in an often challenging environment.
That we might occasionally experience a failure to communicate became apparent at the opening reception in Cassino. Efforts to prevent smoking in the hotel restaurant were rapidly abandoned in the face of, as they say, widespread opposition. Asking a Serb not to smoke is like asking Toni Braxton to show up fully clothed. (Line of the week: When our group stopped in Naples to peer at Vesuvius, the cloud of cigarette smoke was overwhelming. Barb said she had to get back on the bus "for some fresh air.")
The first day of training featured big-picture panels. While the focus of the conference was to be hands-on, Callahan insisted--quite rightly--that some exposure to American-style journalism ethics was critical. The fans seemed a little restive but not mutinous.
Day Two was disconnect city. We hadn't received much of a scouting report, so the skill levels of the group weren't clear. Also, many Eastern Europeans, not surprisingly given their recent history, are in "receive mode," as press attaché and Belgrade veteran Ian Kelly put it. Class participation wasn't happening. Asking for questions and reactions? A big mistake. By dinner the buzz made it clear that the students weren't happy.
Finally, the logjam broke. We realized some of what was being taught seemed too basic to the Serbs; they felt we were being condescending. And some of the Web sites we were showing them were far more expensive than anything their employers could afford.
By Day Three things had fallen into place. As Barb and Chris showed how to build a Web page and held forth on Web design, their audience was rapt. The students were clearly into it as they customized the basic page Barb had created. My favorite was the guy who changed the name of his page from Montecassino Messenger to Montecassino Prison. (The Serbs made quite clear how much they'd rather be experiencing the delights of the Eternal City than be cooped up in our "campus," the moral equivalent of a Holiday Inn off the Interstate.)
Meanwhile, the barriers were crumbling. Long, lingering discussions over red wine and espresso gave us a sense of what they had endured: struggling to practice independent journalism in a repressive state, watching their homeland drift hopelessly backward, coping with the NATO bombing.
Barb's next stop was Slovenia. One of our dinner partners explained that, 10 years ago, he regarded Slovenia as nowhere, the sticks. Now, Serbia was well behind it.
Back in Rome at that farewell reception, there was animated conversation. We were asked to pose for pictures. We were urged to vow that one day we would visit Belgrade.
And, yes, along with my two new Serb best friends, I did finally get back to the hotel. The three of us must have been quite a sight as we careened helplessly through the Roman night, cabless and clueless. Finally, I slipped a hotel desk clerk some lira, and miraculously a vehicle appeared.
And as we approached the Hotel Rivoli in the early morning, we said a fond goodbye.