New week, new faces, same confusion. The Week Two crowd has landed, wide-eyed and wondering where the food is, what hall they’re meant to be in, and whether thunder always sounds like an airstrike in the media centre. (Spoiler: it does.)
Half the venue is sweating in shorts. The other half? Arctic tundra. I’m stationed in the latter, clutching a coffee and wondering if the shivering counts as cardio.
Bloomberg’s flashy TV studio has vanished—like the hope of an early lunch break. They’re still writing, just… quietly. Probably from somewhere warm.
The hypocrisy narrative is doing the rounds again: “Why do so many people fly to a climate conference?” Ask any first-timer and they’ll tell you they came cynical—but now they get it. Something about hearing Indigenous women chant under Amazonian rainstorms or watching sleep-deprived negotiators debate 1.5°C like the world depends on it (because it does).
Outside, protests are back. Real ones. Colour, chaos, conviction. Inside, negotiations grind forward, an uphill battle. Optimism flickers. Adaptation finance might triple. Fossil fuel language remains in use. History could still be made—between rain leaks, venue meltdowns and thunder that makes even seasoned journos jump out of their chairs.
Welcome to Week Two. It’s COP all over again.
