REYKJAVIK, Iceland - All reporters will tell you from time to time that they do their work out of love of the story, a need to tell the world. This, I’m sorry to say, is not one of those times.

There are some CNN assignments which are performed not from either of those noble motivations but simply from duty, or happening to be in the right place at the right time, which really means you are in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I feel like a voyeur at a funeral. A vile rubber-necker craning to get a fleeting glimpse of the carnage as I pass a road crash, disguising my macabre interest as a considerate deceleration to preserve the safety of the attendant emergency service personnel.

I have come to Iceland to report for The Screening Room on the country’s cinematic prowess.  I shall likely leave it as a leper, cast out by my hosts for invading their time of grief.

“How do you feel?” I ask, cursing myself at uttering the question which has become known as the ultimate journalistic cliché. “How do you feel…about the situation?”

I cannot bear even to mention the name of my subject, but I don’t need to. The first few targets of my intended interview rush past, evading the red and white CNN mike box. Apparently nerves remain raw and emotions are running high.

In less than 48 hours from my filing of this report, Iceland, a country of a mere 300 thousand souls – is destined to become a more soulless place as its three branches of the mighty McDonald's forest are lopped off by the tree surgeon of global finance.

The closure of McDonald's most northern empire sends ripples of fear across the world, reaching even as far as Hobart, whose 300 thousand citizens must wonder whether a similar fate may befall the jewel of Tasmania’s cultural diversity – the world’s most southerly branch of Starbucks.

But such global questions must rest unanswered for now as my brief confines me to this sad volcanic rock in the north Atlantic whose very  geology appears to rise up in surly resentment against this fast food fatality. It hisses steam and spits lava from every nook and fissure. It’s as if the Devil himself is sending a dark warning directly from Hell about the folly of the financial freeze. Forming an unholy alliance, the heavens open and pour liquid gloom upon my presence in this beautifully barren wasteland.

Upon arrival at Reykjavik’s international airport the departure board displays a sign of things to come - the last flights of the day are to Boston and New York, destined no doubt to be packed with deserters as an exodus begins in search of the burger so cruelly denied to the indigenous populace. For those in search of such culinary comfort closer to home, a flight to the Irish capital Dublin will provide the nearest McDonalds outlet - a mere 2,000 kilometers from the runways of Reykjavik.

Iceland’s tiny population provides an obstinate challenge to national supremacy on an international stage. Even in the competition for the world’s most expensive Big Mac it could muster only a bronze medal position, deprived of gold by its Nordic neighbors Norway and Sweden.

When its chance finally arrived, with the Icelandic currency plummeting in the wake of the global financial crisis, the imported ingredients of a Quarter Pounder soared to sensational heights. But just as it seemed destined to become the priciest patty on earth, the Happy Meal was forced to make way for misery as the franchise-holders, brothers Gon and Magnus Ogmundsson, told an unsuspecting world that he would tear down the golden arches and rip the relish from the hearts of hamburger-lovers.

Of course I’m using journalese here. What they actually said was that Iceland’s unique economic circumstances made it impossible to continue and that McDonalds had actually been very sympathetic and supportive during tough times for the business.

Nonetheless Iceland’s polar population, as with many populaces around the world, was polarized by the arrival of McDonald's. The burger brand seems to split communities into fundamentalists who regard it as either a sign of civilization or the evil ambassador of American imperialism.

The Ogmundsson’s plan to replace McDonald's with locally sourced food creates an opportunity to tap into the island’s own culinary heritage.

Iceland’s natural resources – steam and rock – and its lack of other resources – mayonnaise, hamburger relish, sesame buns, onion rings – have shaped its cuisine. But locally sourced food here actually means cheaper food. However, far from pickled herring, moss, minke whale, stewed seaweed or any of the abundant fresh seafood waiting to be steamed in the island’s volcanic oven, the Ogmundssons plan to replace McDonald's with an Icelandic burger bar.

I finally manage to lure a vox pop out of a local. She didn’t want to give her name for obvious reasons. She was about 18, with dyed black spiky hair, 13 earrings and a pierced tongue to complement her abundant tattoos. I tried to add concern and sincerity to my question.

“How do you feel?”

Her reply didn’t surprise me.

“I don’t really care. Never touched the stuff. Good riddance as far as I’m concerned.”

Clearly the young woman was in denial, fortified by the false bravado of youth.

A middle-aged couple, probably out to console themselves by revisiting favorite Icelandic landmarks, mustered what they supposed to be a cheery wave.

The woman brushed away a tear, mumbling something about the bitter wind, but I was not taken in.

“McDonald's.” I said. “I’m so sorry to ask, but how are you coping?”

“Never been in there in my life,” the man lied. "Glad to see the back of it.”

He was a convincing actor who, rare among those who have savored the irresistible blend of egg, sausage and muffin in the gloriously named “Sausage and Egg McMuffin,” could deliver such a damning verdict with a straight face. De Niro would meet his peer in this remarkable Reykjavikian.

Indeed the evidence pointed to the contrary as people headed in droves to the drive-in, queued around the block, with lines of teenagers bursting out of the door, desperate to get their final fix of this forbidden food.

As I stood in the street and watched the light turned off in McDonald's Icelandic flagship store for the para-penultimate time I heard a clock strike midnight.

I knew it was time for me to leave this day of the damned. A wake for the passing of the patty. A wake-javic in Reykjavik.

With a heavy heart and heavy stomach, my greasy finger pressed “return” on my laptop and my report was done. In years to come people may rejoice in the majesty of the northern lights, the music of Bjork or Sigur Ros and the luxury of the Blue Lagoon. But from this time on they will never share the communal joy of a happy meal with a Shrek 4 mobile phone toy or substituting extra fries with a fruit bag just to annoy the kids. Think on this you global bankers as you contemplate your multi-million dollar bonuses. Think on what you have done to the people of Iceland.

TOKYO, Japan - There’s nothing like buzz to get your product selling, especially in Tokyo.

The Japanese love what’s hot, hip and new. Microsoft, launching Windows 7 after a troubled reception here for Vista, decided to pair up with Burger King for some cross promotion.

Burger King, for its part, could use some buzz itself. The king of whoppers has a fraction of the market share and revenue that McDonald’s boasts. McDonald’s, in the recession and slow recovery in Japan, has seen record profit levels as frugal diners lean to the US$1 menu.

Hence, the Windows 7 Whopper was born. It’s really just a whopper with seven patties. Yes, 7.

For one week, the Windows 7 Whopper is available at all of Japan’s Burger Kings for the low price of 777 yen, equivalent to about US$9.

That’s a heck of a deal for beef in Japan, which is usually much more expensive. But like any good promotion, only a limited few get to partake of the gut bomb.

Every day this week, the first 30 diners at every Burger King gets the deal. After that, you have to pay double for the Windows 7 Whopper.

In the Kanda neighborhood in Tokyo, the manager tells me the first 30 burgers sold out in two hours. But I still managed to meet two guys who decided to pay double just to partake of the promotional event. They ate, and ate, and ate. One man finished - the other cried uncle.

I couldn’t resist: I had to try it. I ate, and ate, and ate. I found out mid-monster-burger that I’d be eating approximately 2100 calories, more than I usually eat in one full day. I’ve won hot dog and ice cream eating contests, but this looked like a task too tough to finish. But as my cameraman disparaged my eating abilities, I trudged on and polished it off.

Will the publicity stunt work? Hard to say. The buzz got our cameras there and my guard down long enough to eat one monster burger. But as Microsoft’s much hyped Vista proved, there has to be follow through for buzz to translate into customer satisfaction.

SEOUL, South Korea - One look at young fashion designer Ha Sang Beg and you know what he's about: Color, comfort and couture. But you have to talk to him before you understand what makes him different from his predecessors: His address.

Designer Ha Sang Beg hopes his designs will go global.

"I choose Korea as my headquarter," says Ha, his second language of English draped with a British lilt from his years studying in the UK. "I'm Korean and I feel comfortable in Korea. There is lot of merit in Korea."

He's not alone. Flip through the latest fashion magazines and you'll find a new breed of designers, who are attempting to make a global mark from Seoul.

"That's exciting to see," says Vogue Korea's Kwangho Shin. Shin says young talent used to leave Seoul and work from established fashion cities like London or New York. But this generation feels differently about their home country and the possibility of success from home.

"It concerns me as to how long it will last," says Shin. "Our challenge is digging up new talent and supporting their skills."

Seoul has focused on developing its automotive and high tech sector, and more recently, green technology. But fashion has been the forte of neighbors Tokyo and Hong Kong, who have more successfully built the business ties with the global fashion world. Shin says if Korea wants to keep up and coming talent like Beg at home, it needs to offer more.

Korea's government, trying to do that, named the fashion industry as one of the six new-growth power industries for the country, calling its goal the globalization of Seoul fashion. In this week's Seoul Fashion Week, the government worked with the industry to create not just a show, but a business event with the goal of becoming "World Fashion City, Seoul."

Ha hopes his government succeeds in building enough of an infrastructure to keep him busy at home. He predicts he's about to hit his global stride and hopes to take his country's image with him. "I'm still warming up, rather than going for it," he says. "My stage is warming up, just before running."

BEIJING, China - I hauled myself out of bed at 6 a.m. Sunday to set out for something I'd never done before–run a race in the Beijing marathon.

Jaime FlorCruz, far right, joins Zhang Lianqi, center, and another runner at the finish line.

I’ve been prepping for this day, on and off, for three months since I signed up to run 9.6K as part of the 2009 Beijing International Marathon, the full length of which is a little more than 42 kilometers.

My 58-year-old body seemed fit enough to run the distance, but I woke up with pinching pain on my left knee. For one brief moment, I thought that was a good reason to back out.

I decided to go and run. I had my muesli and banana, took a painkiller and proceeded to Tiananmen Square. Nearly 30,000 people, professionals and amateurs, had gathered there for the 29-year-old annual event. Foreigners paid $100 to register; Chinese paid 150 yuan ($22). Everyone gets a packet, including a runner's bag and bib, an official T-shirt and a certificate of participation.

At the starting line, some came in groups — high school and college students, factory workers, corporate employees, and members of runners’ club from various parts of China. Others came alone or with running buddies. Many joined to challenge themselves. Others, like the nine Chinese nuns from Henan province, run to support charity. Several runners wore distinctive T-shirts emblazoned with company logos ("Bimbo" Bread stands out) and uplifting message (the Obama slogan “Yes We Can” was eye-catching, if a bit tired).

I can too, I thought, as I jogged past Chairman Mao’s portrait soon after the start. Forty minutes and four kilometers later, however, my energy and enthusiasm started to flag. I puffed and winced, as I watched rabbit-like runners overtake me and deflated stragglers fall off behind me. Can I go on for five more Ks?

Just as I was losing confidence, I noticed an elderly man in red shirt, red shorts and blue sneakers, running just ahead of me. I sidled up and politely asked his age. "I’m 76,” he says, smiling.

Zhang Lianqi, it turns out, is a running aficionado. "I've been joining long-distance runs in Beijing since 1956," he recalls, keeping a slow but steady pace. “Once, I finished 37th.” He retired from his transistor-factory job 16 years ago but still jogs two to three kilometers three times a week.

That explains Zhang’s good form. "I've gained a bit of weight but I can still run," he quips. Along the way, he served as my mentor and inspiration. “Let’s not run in the middle of the street,” he suggests, so we avoid runners who are too fast or too slow. He took out two squares of chocolate from a yellow plastic bag and handed me one. “Don’t swallow, just let it melt in your mouth.” Soon, we passed 6K!

Impetuously, I picked up speed, inspired by periodic cheers ("Persistence means victory!") from onlookers and volunteers who’d lined the streets. “Pace yourself,” Zhang warned me. “Don’t run too fast.” Badly dehydrated, I fetched a bottle of water from a volunteer. “Don’t drink too much,” he says. “Just sip.” His most telling unsolicited advice involved attire. “Next time wear running shorts,” he admonished me. “Sweatpants drag you down.” Like a tour guide, he narrated a bit of history of Diaoyutai, as we ran past China's state guest house. He probably just wished to distract me. By the time he finished his spiel, we were only 600 meters away from our goal.

Literally shoulder to shoulder, we crossed the 9.6K finish line. As we posed for souvenir pictures and exchanged phone numbers, I felt especially exhilarated to have found in Mr. Zhang a running companion, a mentor and another Beijing friend. I am glad he pushed me to the finish line.

It’s a rare story that captures a journalist’s imagination the way this one has.

I first heard of El Mirador from Jeff Morgan, the founder of the Global Heritage Fund.

We were talking about his organization when he mentioned this ancient Mayan city they were working to save. Buried deep in the jungles of Northern Guatemala are the stone relics of an empire. His voice cracked with enthusiasm as he described the amazing discoveries being unearthed almost daily.

The archeologists excavating there say they have evidence now showing Mirador, this remote site almost no one has ever heard of, is home to the largest pyramid in the world by volume, the first freeway system in the world and a newly unearthed piece artwork, the size of a football field, that could rewrite the historical timeline of the Mayan civilization.

As a journalist, I did what I’ve been trained to do and asked calmly, “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

He did, so my follow-up question was easy: “How can we get there?”

We arrived by helicopter from Guatemala City along with Morgan and the director of the Mirador Basin Project, Richard Hansen. When you’re in the jungle for the first time, a couple thoughts cross your mind. First, you wonder what else is out there, lurking behind the brush and branches, sizing you up.

And the second thing you think about is where you put your water. The heat is intense. It was 34 C the whole time we were there – day and night – and moisture from the jungle canopy adds a steamy, sticky film to your skin that traps the heat.

Our shoot lasted several days, short by documentary filming standards, but we packed in as much work as possible. Working 14-hour days, we hiked for miles, scaled pyramids, squeezed through tiny corridors to get inside the temples.

But in addition to all the wonderful historical discoveries, there is another, more pressing reason we went to film this story. Mirador is facing threats on several fronts.

Looters are constantly breaking into the sites and stealing priceless artifacts. Loggers and cattle ranchers are cutting down the surrounding rainforest at an alarming speed. And narco-traffickers, flying cocaine-filled planes, are landing in the remote areas then setting them ablaze, sparking devastating wildfires.

For Jeff Morgan, Richard Hansen, and several organizations like PACUNAM and APANAC, the purpose of saving and preserving this incredible site is so that the people who live in the surrounding villages will benefit.

These groups hope that by creating a sustainable tourist destination, it will attract tourists from around the world, and bring badly needed fund to the poorest area of the country.

Looking back, it felt like a whirlwind going from plane, to helicopter, to isolated jungle and then back again. But I came away from the experience with the sense that there are still wonders left in this world to be discovered, and good people fighting with everything they have, to save them.

It’s a story I’ll never forget. And one that I hope, for the archeologists and people of Guatemala, has a happy ending.

It's been four years since I was last in Aceh covering the aftermath of the tsunami and I was braced for the worst on this trip.

A tsunami drill is carried out in Banda Aceh, with droning alarms and people fleeing an imaginary wave.

I had cynically assumed that there would still be huge swathes of wasteland towards the edge of the city.

But those "fields of shards," as one expat memorably described them to me in the dark days after the tsunami, are now gone. In fact, you have to look quite hard to find any trace of the catastrophe that consumed this corner of Indonesia the day after Christmas 2004.

Houses and shops have sprung up where once there was nothing but rubble, bodies and misery. But what is even more encouraging is that the people here are now much, much better prepared for another tidal wave.

This morning we watched as a full scale tsunami drill was carried out, complete with droning alarms and people covered in fake blood fleeing an imaginary wave.

It was well organized and seemed to show that if Aceh was hit again, there would be a chance for some people to escape.

For some, it brought back chilling memories of that terrible morning on December 26, 2004.

Yudi Rinaldi said the drill brought back images of the day he ran for his life as the tsunami surged towards him.

Yudi Rinaldi, 36, and his four-year-old son Ryan, were among those taking part in the Ulee Lee area of Banda Aceh. He told me the drill was traumatic for him - bringing back vivid images of the day he ran for his life as a monstrous black wave of rubble surged towards him.

Then, there were no tsunami shelters for people like Yudi to run towards.

Now, there are several of these specially-constructed buildings around the city, with room for hundreds of residents. There is a system of buoys out at sea linked to satellites, which should give plenty of warning of an impending tsunami.

I only hope the system will never have to be used for real.

(CNN) – CNN Cairo went to the beach Monday. It was not, alas, a day of rest. We assembled at 2 a.m. at the headquarters of the Egyptian Army's "Morale Guidance" Bureau, from where we were bussed, an hour later, to the northern coast to cover the 2009 Brightstar Exercises.

This year 17,000 troops from Egypt, the United States, Jordan, Pakistan, Germany, Italy, and Kuwait - to name a few - are taking part.

These military exercises have been conducted every two years since 1981.

There is a certain predictability about these affairs. The officers, whatever the country, are all upbeat, talking about cooperation, partnership and mutual respect.

But in the end, these are war games: A rehearsal for something to which other, far less lofty terms come to mind. The officers we interviewed - Americans and Egyptians - speak in glowing adjectives, but dodge questions about what or whom the exercises are preparing for.

I covered Brightstar 10 years ago. Back then it was also all about partnership and cooperation. But in the combat operations room of the USS John F. Kennedy, I had a premonition of what was to come. On a map of clear plastic, written in magic marker over Baghdad were the words: "Target: Saddam."

Ten years later Saddam is gone; U.S. forces are bogged down in Iraq and Afghanistan, while targets have been hit in Yemen, Somalia, and Pakistan.

Voices have been raised in the U.S. – though more loudly and insistently in Israel - calling for military action against Iran, which is accused by some of pursuing a nuclear weapons program.

Back in 1999 it was fairly clear that sooner or later the U.S. and its allies would, somehow or other, bring down Saddam Hussein. After September 11, 2001, regardless of Iraq's non-involvement in those attacks, Saddam's days were running out.

I don't think, at this moment, an attack against Iran (by Israel, by the U.S., or both) is as inevitable as Saddam Hussein's demise. But the possibility is there.

As the sun rose over the desert, I watched three C17 "Globemasters," which had flown straight from Fort Bragg in North Carolina, drop hundreds of paratroopers - mostly Americans along with a few Egyptians and Pakistanis. Later, a pair of American Cobra gunships provided air support as three huge U.S. Navy hovercraft disgorged a dozen armored humvees on a beautiful Mediterranean beach, already "secured" by U.S., Egyptian, Pakistani and Jordanian troops.

It was an impressive display of force and hardware, as well as cooperation and partnership. However it's easy to see from the weapons on display who is the senior "partner."

Sitting in the press bus on my way back to Cairo typing this with my thumbs on a blackberry, I wonder if, as the American and Egyptian officers told us, the Brightstar exercises aren't designed for a specific threat then what is the point?

HONG KONG, China — “Sun Outage” is a phrase that means something to someone working in the Satellite and Television Industries.

When you are sitting at home watching television, there is a good chance that the CNN on your screen has traveled around the world via satellites. These satellites are geo-stationary, which means they hover over the same piece of Earth all the time, in fact they are rotating at the same speed as the Earth to achieve this.

A ‘sun outage’ is similar to a solar eclipse – when the moon blocks out the daytime sun – except this time that pesky sun gets behind our satellite.

The satellites we use are effectively giant reflectors of radio waves that carry our television signals. The radio waves get sent from one part of the world and reflected back to another part of the world, often ending up in another continent. Typically space is a quiet place. However, the sun is a very noisy thing, emitting all sorts of radio wavelengths at high amplitude.

Thus, when the sun gets behind our satellite - albeit only for a few minutes a year (and we just finished our last sun outage period on Thursday) – it swamps all the radio waves with its solar noise. So we, along with others, lose our signal in that noise.

It is a bit like trying to have a conversation with your friend in front of a set of rock concert speakers - deafening and impossible to hear anything. Anyway, if your picture goes on the blink and you hear the phrase ‘sun outage’ then sit tight, make a cup of tea and do not adjust your set.

Normal service will resume when our lovely sun meanders on.

TOKYO, Japan — Shoichi Nakagawa burst onto the global stage in an embarrassing, and memorable way. He appeared to be drunk at the G7 news conference in Rome, Italy, falling asleep as reporters questioned the world leaders. He apologized for his behavior, but denied it was the result of heavy drinking.

A man delivers flowers to Nakagawa’s home.

But that behavior led to his resignation as finance minister and multiple jokes told through Japan, including a downloadable mobile phone game where players win by keeping the apparently drunk finance minister awake.

That may have been a shocking event to world viewers, but in Japan, what followed in the election was far more stunning. Nakagawa lost in the August 30 general election, marking the collapse of what had been dubbed the “Nakagawa Kingdom.” That name came from the strong electoral power base built by his father. Supporters cried in Nakagawa’s arms on election night and pledged to fight in the next election. Nakagawa appeared calm and respectful.

But privately, former Chief Cabinet Secretary Takeo Kawamura surmised the loss was far more shocking. Kawamura, to reporters in Tokyo, said Nakagawa may have been both physically and mentally exhausted due to the shock of losing in the election.

Police have no ruling yet on the cause of Nakagawa’s death. But at age 56, he is one year younger than his father was when he died. Nakagawa himself entered politics after his father’s death, which was ruled a suicide.

As word spread through Tokyo, old political friends lined up outside Nakagawa’s home to mark the sad passing. To them, Nakagawa still had a future with domestic politics, but both that and his life were cut short before their time.

SOLANA MUNICIPALITY, Philippines — The villagers in the northern Philippines have lived with typhoons their whole lives, but many of them told me they weren't prepared for a storm the size of Typhoon Parma.

A farmer crosses a flooded rice paddy on the outskirts of Manila.

I am in a village in Solana, a municipality of Cagayan Province, where Parma made landfall.

We have been driving through some of the low-lying areas. On our way here, we passed downed power lines and tree branches strewn on the roads. Military personnel and local volunteers are working overtime to clear the debris. While we were filming some of the damage, a farmer walked over to tell me that the flooding got so severe that the waters rose as high as his head.

The village I am in now is a community of farmers.  Some of the rooftops on the homes here were blown off by the winds. The power was knocked out. One man told me he was terrified when the storm set in because he could hear his house rattling and the rains pelting his metal roof. The waters on some of the roads come up to our knees.

The villagers told me flooding is normal during typhoon season so many of them build a second floor on their homes. One family of rice farmers was kind enough to show me around their house. All their belongings were elevated, piled on tables, cabinets and shelves. The water was about a foot deep. This is the first time, the family told me, that the water flowed into the house. The ceiling is stained with water marks, Parma's permanent imprint on their home.

The family's home has a second floor but it failed to provide the usual shelter to the storm. The sound of Parma was so frightening, they said, that the six family members chose to huddle on small beds on the ground floor despite the rising waters. They feared the severe winds would blow off their roof, leaving them exposed to Parma's fury. They didn't have time to evacuate.

The winds and rains are gone now as Parma heads away from here. The farmers say the waters will likely take about a week to recede, and they worry about the damage to their crops. The rice plants are likely destroyed, Pinky Rhose Jesalva, a university student told me. Her family owns a tract of land nearby.

Other farmer families have laid out corn kernels alongside the road in hopes that the fermenting seeds will dry out. The Agricultural Department estimates the cost of damage from the two typhoons, Parma and Ketsana, will amount to about 120 million U.S. dollars, mainly because of devastated rice crops.

But the farmers have not given up hope. They are walking on the corn, turning the kernels over with their bare feet, in the hopes of salvaging more of their harvests.