The media position was a wall. Forty photographers two deep behind a barrier, long lenses, a noise coming off them like rain on a tin roof, brrrt of motordrives every time anyone so much as turned their head.
And in front of it, stepping straight into my path with a microphone and a sound man behind him, a fella in a gilet. I had his accent before he had two words out.
"Daniel! Daniel, quick word for the English feed. How does it feel landing in Russia as Morocco boss?"
I looked at the microphone with the flag on it. And I answered him in French.
I'll give you what I said, since it's no secret to you, only to him.
"A wonderful welcome," I said, warm as anything. "These people have come a very long way. Some of them sold a great deal to be here. How could a man not be moved."
Not one word of it any use to a desk that runs live with no subtitles.
He blinked. "Sorry, that's, it's for the English channel, mate, could you give us it in English?"
