Power Brokers

I don’t feel like being overly verbose regarding my day yesterday but I will sum it up in one word: gratifying.  There were two main parts of the day, both of which involved meeting individuals with a considerable amount of sway in the community.  First, I went to a small summer villa in the mountains owned by General Aziz Swayze, the top commander of Kurdistan’s Army.  I didn’t get a chance to talk with him much, as he was always surrounded by people and he doesn’t speak English.  There were about 50-60 people there and as the picture shows, the table was huge.  The feast was your typical Kurdish cuisine, just a lot more of it. 

After lunch I went with Kevin, Bjin and Brien (the two students who invited me), and another gentleman who is a professor at the University of Zakho.  We took a trek through the hillsides and got some pretty amazing views.  The pictures tell the story better than I can.  I had never really eaten fresh almonds before.  Not the almonds you typically buy in the store, these are right off the tree and still ripe.  One had a worm in it so I quickly spit that one out, but the rest are pretty decent, although a bit tart. 

After we left to drive back to Duhok I wanted to air my feet out a bit as the day was pretty hot (it has been about 90 every day).  Naturally, just like I do back home, I stuck my feet out the window as we were driving.  Evidently this was the most ridiculous thing people had seen as every passing car gave a look one way or another.  I was amused and didn’t care, and Bjin was laughing hysterically.  I never saw the reason though as you see far more things on the road which are far more ridiculous.  As if to perfectly prove my point, a car passed us with about 5 people in the back seat, 2 in the front seat, and 3 sitting with their feet dangling out of the trunk.  Compared to that, I was just a regular passenger. 

            After I got home I had about 40 minutes to relax before the next adventure began.  Two faculty members from the law department at the university invited Samuel and I out for a picnic.  I thought we were hanging out in the mountains, drinking some whiskey and eating chicken.  To my surprise, we pull up to a massive house, still in the mountains, but clearly not the rustic getaway I had envisaged. 

            It is still very common to define your family not just by your immediate family, as we do, but to classify yourself as part of your tribe.  Tribes are located in certain areas of the region, and are fairly well connected.  It is a holdover from the past, but one that still bears a considerable deal of influence.  The Dosky tribe is the largest in Duhok, and we were at the tribal leader’s house. 

            We passed the mansion and pool and came to a large, tent covered room.   It was filled with couches, neatly decorated, and stocked with food and drinks.  There were about 9-10 of us, and it was all guys.  The conversation started in a way that many people typically try to avoid: discussing politics.  Chivas 21 dulled any inhibitions, and we dove right in.  We asked a lot of poignant and direct questions, about everything from the power of tribal leaders to Islam in the West, and he answered them all.  For hours we sat there, and before long, Samuel and I had killed an entire bottle of whiskey.  Stuffed with food and drink, and very much enjoying our host, it was a pretty awesome evening.  As a parting gift he gave us an entire bottle of Chivas.  At that point it was safe to say we were donezo. 

            But, as usually happens here, we got into the car and our driver suggested popping open a few piss warm beers.  As soon as it touched my lips I cringed at how awful it tasted.  Even cold beer here is akin to Miller Light, garbage.  After a bit we had to toss it out the window.  My stomach couldn’t take it, and Samuel was well in the tank too.  I didn’t make a giant mess in my room like last time, but I did wake up feeling quite under the weather.  All in all, it was an awesome day.  It involved meeting some powerful people, nature walks, shooting the breeze, and delicious food.  Can’t go wrong!

Blurbs

This is a picture of the best shawarma place in Duhok.  For 1,000 IQD, less than a dollar, you get a delicious chicken sandwich.  Shawarma is hugely popular here, even for breakfast.  Some of them are shit, and some are just alright.  Doner Sultana is the best in the business.

Second, I snapped a quick picture in my friend Aras' living room.  Most living rooms look fairly similar to this: opulently decorated, well kept, and cozy.

This is a picture exhibiting Kurdish work ethic and management skills.  Management is ridiculously poor in this country in just about every capacity.  Regularly seeing more waiters than customers is one such indication. This group of young men is patiently waiting till they can go home...while watching tv of course.

Embracing Randomness

            Duhok is not a city renowned for its spontaneity.  Each day closely resembles the last, and despite a lack of overall structure with regards to work, there is no notion of productivity, the people very much have a set schedule that they like to follow.  You know exactly what to expect when living here.  HOWEVER, as an American thrown into the Middle East, my desires to mix things up are well known.  This led me to two experiences, completely random, that are worth telling. 

UK Pub Time

            There aren’t many English speaking foreigners in Duhok so whenever one miraculously appears in the city we try to connect with them.  Samuel hails from the United Kingdom and recently came to Duhok as part of a teaching program.  Conveniently enough, he replaced Paige and me at the Cultural Center teaching for the notorious Lazgin.  We had gone out to dinner with a few other people once before and Samuel proved himself to be an enjoyable companion.   He is around my age, personable, jocular….and speaks English. This is an absolute winning combination.  I invited him out to dinner one night to Vin House, a Lebanese restaurant, to show him another place in town we like to go to. 

            As I walked into the restaurant I noticed that Samuel was accompanied by an older gentleman who I had never seen before.  John introduced himself and I quickly detected another accent.  I found out that he was from Scotland and also working for Samuel’s company; he was only in Duhok for one more day and was then heading to nearby Zakho, a town with even less to do than Duhok.  Conversation flowed over some cheese steak sandwiches and then the million dollar question was broached: What should we do next?  John offered the suggestion of heading somewhere to grab a beer.  Samuel and I agreed that would be fun as the night shouldn’t end just yet.  Little did we know what the rest of the night would bring. 

            We headed to Nohadra because it is the only location in town that I know of with any semblance of a bar.  Going inside we noticed that it was quite lifeless on this particular evening, but nevertheless, we ordered our drinks and sat down for a while.  John and Samuel were more loquacious than I was.  It was probably a combination of: a) them having already spent the day together and being more acquainted, b) their being from similar geographic locations, and c) my always having to get a feel for new people.  After we finished the pint we came up with the idea to head next door to the other bar to see if they had any cards we could play.  I was enjoying myself as both Samuel and John are interesting people, and I figured one more stop wouldn’t hurt as I had nothing to do the next day. 

            I had actually never been to the other bar, they are all nameless as far as I’m concerned, so I was intrigued as to what I would find.  Whereas the first one is more akin to a dive bar, this one was a little bit nicer.  We approached the bartender to order our drinks. Samuel and I stuck with beer and John ordered a glass of wine.  As the waiter brought our drinks to the table we knew there must have been some mishap in communication, shocking I know, as he brought John an entire bottle of wine.  At this point it became clear that we were going to be there a while. 

            After the first few pints went down the rest seemed to flow like water.  A beer out turned into 4-5, not enough to be intoxicated, but certainly enough to change the mood at the table.  We were all discussing everything from biotechnology to working in the Middle East.  John is actually a biotechnologist who has over 15 patents outstanding and more applications pending for a new drug that he helped to create.  I got the impression that he is actually quite wealthy, although his brash demeanor, humble style of dress, and Scottish ‘charm’ gave no such indication.

            Before we knew it the clock struck around 1am and the bartender was giving us the signal to leave.  Feeling good and not wanting the night to end, Samuel and John tried to persuade the bartender to sell us a few more drinks.  To my surprise, the bartender gave us one more round even as the rest of the bar had cleared out save for one other table.  After our round was promptly delivered, another one showed up within 2 minutes.  The gentleman at the other table also bought us a round!  He eventually came over to chat and his English was fairly decent as he, randomly enough, spent some time in Scotland himself.  Those drinks were downed and we were all feeling quite good.  I figured the night was over after the bartender yielded to frustration and finally kicked us out after EVERYONE else had left; wrong again. 

            We went outside and my stomach led us up the street to find some shawarma.  I always like to eat after a night of drinking so some of the alcohol can be absorbed before I go to sleep.  I devoured a couple of sandwiches and watched John fall down outside and drop all of his belongings.  This was the signal that we were all drunk, and like drunk people do, we wanted to find something else to do.  Samuel started approaching random people outside of the shawarma shop and asking where we could buy whiskey.  Evidently, we could not play cards at my apartment without whiskey, so the search was on.  Surprised yet again, Samuel, using broken Arabic, found a cab driver who would take us to the Promised Land. 

            We pulled down a slightly darker street and stopped at a building tucked away from the main road.  I immediately noticed that this was the same trailor I had played poker in before!  We went inside and started talking away with all of the employees.  After about 10-15 minutes we secured a large bottle of Jack Daniels: Black Label.  I had completely wiped out my supply of cash with my share of the bottle.  Now, we were on a dark street with no taxis in site.  Randomness continued to ensue and a Black Hummer with two young guys offers us a ride.  Being drunk we gave a collective, “Fuck it” and hopped in. 

Their level of English wasn’t great but the language of fun took over.  They quickly cracked out some Corona’s in the car and passed them back to us.  In the US I would ask to get out of the car; in Iraq there are no laws against such things, and I had no other options, so I went along for the joyride.  By the time we got back to my house it had to be around 2am.  After all the twists and turns the night had already taken, it HAD to be almost over.  Wrong again.

We literally sat in my apartment drinking whiskey and failing miserably at playing cards for 2.5 hours.  John and Samuel were absolutely wasted and eventually fell victim to tautological arguments and discussions of English vs. Scottish people.  I quietly listened and internally mulled over the idea of when I could finally go to bed.  At 4:30am, my wish was finally granted as I had to kick them out.  John lit a cigarette and spilled the ashes on my floor as a nice goodbye.  Samuel was most apologetic as he literally had no idea what they were arguing about for so long.  Come to find out, John took a nosedive once he left my building and Samuel had to carry him to the only open bakery so he could hail a cab. 

All in all, it was actually one of the more memorable nights I have had in Duhok.  It could adequately be described as a shitshow, but as I have mentioned before, sometimes that is exactly what is needed to break up the monotony of daily life. 

Ice Cream with Imams

            After a normal day of work I sat at home a little bit bored.  Kurdistan has 1,000 holidays and the following day happened to be one of them, thus expediting the weekend.  But I had nothing to do, so I called my friend Warvin, a local Kurdish girl who could easily fit in an American lifestyle, to see if she wanted to go out to eat chicken wings and smoke some hookah.  Samuel joined up with us about an hour later.  We sat and chatted over some dinner, smoked, and taught Samuel how to play the card game Comkin.  It was about time to leave when my phone rang.  It was Waleed, a gentleman from my English class who is about 40 years old, has a very low level of English, and happens to be an Imam. 

Earlier in the week I asked him if I could go to his mosque with him to check it out.  I am always up to learn new things, see different places, and broaden my horizons.  We had set up a time for me to visit on Friday after he conducted the prayer session so I was surprised that he was calling on Tuesday night.  Through a translator he asked if I was busy and wanted to come out now.  It was about 9pm, but I had nothing to do the next day.  I had absolutely no idea what he wanted to do, but, similar to the bar night, I decided to embrace the randomness. 

Waleed pulls up to the hookah bar to pick me up and I noticed two other individuals in the car.  As I get in the car I notice that they have full beards, are wearing traditional Kurdish clothes and hats.  Waleed informed me that they are also Imams at different mosques in Duhok.  I had never spoken to an Imam before, and even though their English wasn’t great, I thought it would be interesting to see what they had in store and I could also practice a little Kurdish. 

The plan for the evening was to take me to each of their three mosques so I could get a feel for what they are like.  The mosques varied in external design, one was far more elaborate than the others, but internally they were nearly identical.  All of them are gated in but seemingly never locked.  There is a small ‘garden’ near the entrance which is really just a grassy patch surrounded by a few flowers and shrubs.  Near the door of the building is a common area for worshippers to wash their hands, face, and feet.  This is must before you pray.  Before entering the mosque itself you must also remove your shoes so there is an area for that as well.  Once you finally get inside you are greeted by a large, open space.  The walls are nearly bare, and only a chandelier hangs in the center of this room which can easily hold 500+ people.  Imam Ali tells me that over 2,000 people fill this room and even overflow outside on Friday, their most important day of prayer. 

There is no furniture in the room except for a few stands holding the Holy Quran.  In Islam, prayers are combination of kneeling and standing on a prayer rug, so no seating is necessary.  At the front of the room is a clock indicating the 5 times you pray each day, and a microphone for the Imam to discuss the day’s teachings (in Kurdish) and lead the prayers (in Arabic).  I had only previously been to one mosque before so this was an interesting experience to see 3 different mosques, and to sit in the Imam’s chamber of each.  At each location I was greeted as a most welcomed guest and given a small gift (musk, a book, and dates).  The finale of the evening was stopping at a local store and picking up some ice cream.  We ate it in the car on the way to Imam Hussain’s house to enjoy tea, cookies, and sugared dates. 

As I informed a few others of my excursion, I was greeted with some surprising words.  Warvin told me to be careful as you never know who you are dealing with here.  Granted, this is true anywhere, but I have never once felt my safety was in jeopardy here so I felt it imprudent to act as such now.  The fact that they were bearded Imams seemed to make my more Westernized friends as uncomfortable as it would your average American.  I showed my friend Sabah, a well-educated and incredibly nice physicist, the pictures of the evening and he said, “They are terrorists!  I really don’t like people like that.”  I was sort of taken aback by this comment as this judgment was purely based on their outward appearance.  I think that it is these type of flash judgments which exacerbate our differences rather than come together through our commonalities. 

These men, while surely more conservative than your average Kurd in a number of areas (I cannot confirm this due to the language barrier), are still just humans.  Just like anyone else, they are capable of good and evil.  I felt no ill will from them whatsoever, and I found the dichotomy of our clearly contrasting styles to be almost invigorating.  Here I am, an American with a bright shirt, shorts, and sneakers, enjoying a night out with people who would make heads turn at every corner on a New Hampshire street.  That is exactly why I think that experiences like this are important.  For them, they can see that Americans can be open-minded, have a genuine interest in learning about a religion that is not their own, understanding, and warm to someone who is often misunderstood.  For me, I can show pictures of this experience and offer anecdotes backing up the claim that not every bearded Muslim is a feared terrorist with radical extremist goals.  Islam is a religion of peace, despite its being misconstrued all over the world by many.  But Christians are no less guilty, and any amount of bad apples, past or present, should not spoil the entire lot of millions.  The same goes true for Islam.  Any opportunity that I receive to combat stereotypes, argue against flash judgments, and open my mind to something new I will readily accept.  Life is an experiment, and to truly make the most of it, we must be open to all that it has in store.  

Fun with kids and cab rides

           For the past few weeks I have been helping out with a kids’ soccer clinic.  There is an international school, called the Media School, which has three main branches: Erbil, Sulimaniyah, and here in Duhok.  A majority of the teachers are from the United States, and starting at a young age the children begin taking classes in English.  Their standardized test scores are often much higher, and I would surmise to say that their outlook on life is probably different too due to so much interaction with Westerners.  I maintain that programs like this one are a far more effective and less costly form of diplomacy than our traditional means, but perhaps I will discuss that a different day.  For now, I’ll stick to soccer. 

            This soccer clinic is a basic skills and instruction program hosted by two Brazilians, Claudio and Marcus.  I am not sure about Claudio’s background, but I know that Marcus was a former professional player in Brazil.  He never quite made the national team, but to even play for a top team in the most highly respected football nation in the world says something.  Both men are genuinely nice, clearly religious, and care deeply about making a quality program for the kids.  I found out about the program from Andy, an American teacher at the Media School, who is now becoming a close friend of mine.  He is from Iowa and living in Duhok with his wife and two young children. 

            The soccer program runs on Saturdays from 130pm-430pm and is open to 4^th, 5^th, and 6^th graders.  There is a later program for 7^th and 8^th graders but I am unable to attend that one because of time constraints.  Generally, a day at the clinic consists of some warm-up activities, stretching, small team drills, discussing how soccer skills can apply to life, and scrimmages.  The first week I was slightly timid because the program had already been running for 5 weeks and I was brand new.  I did not know the kids so I chose to just have fun with them and keep the “coaching” to a minimum.  By week two the younger ones had really taken a liking to me; I organized a small team and, while playing a scrimmage with them, was by far the most vocal coach on the field.  I was constantly chirping about ball movement, teamwork, spreading the field, controlling the ball, and quick passes.  I think the other team probably had more individual talent, but my team destroyed them.    The kids were happy and, in my head at least, I think they at least learned a little something…even if there is a good chance they forgot it 5 minutes later.

            The older kids, despite only being a year or two older, were visibly more set in their ways.  This team was far more “me” and much less “we.”  Our team was getting smacked down until they finally started playing more together.  I was pleading to them the entire game, but it didn’t clique until near the end.  We ended up losing, but I hope they learned something from the experience.  It is no fun to play for a team that gets down on each other and doesn’t work together.  That is an important lesson for them to take with them in all aspects of life.  Next week is the last week of the clinic, but this has shown me that coaching a kids’ sports team is definitely in my future.  I look forward to the basketball clinic that should start sometime this summer. 

            Next up in my musings of life in Iraq was a short cab ride on the way to the barber.  Cab rides in Duhok are always a mixed bag. Sometimes you get a driver who speaks decent English and you can have a brief conversation; other times they speak no English whatsoever so you are limited to exchanging pleasantries and one word answers in Kurdish.  This particular cab ride offered something I completely did not expect.  In Kurdish, the driver asked me if I spoke French.  Although my level of French has severely declined due to two years of minimal usage, I can still understand at a basic level.  The driver happened to spend 4 years in Switzerland working at a hotel in Geneva; while not perfect either, he could also get by.  We chatted for a bit in French until we realized that there were still some holes in our conversation.  He couldn’t speak English, so I tried throwing some Kurdish into the mix.  I never expected that by mixing French and Kurdish together we could have a nearly complete conversation.  There were certainly details that were missed, but the dialogue surprisingly flowed quite freely. 

            When situations like this arise you truly begin to feel like an international citizen.  I have always said that if I had three wishes they would be to: a) fly like Superman, b) heal physical ailments, and c) speak every language in the world.  Although I am infinitely away from the third goal, it was still a cool experience nevertheless.  What topped it off was also getting a haircut, shave, and 6 DVDs for a grand total of $9.  Sometimes you gotta love Iraq….

Springtime Fun

           After a few less than pleasant posts, I will joyfully apprise the 5 people who read this blog of some positive developments.  First off, the weather has been absolutely gorgeous.  I have no idea whatsoever what the temperature is, due to Celsius to Fahrenheit conversions, but it is a) warm, b) slightly breezy, and c) sunny.  All of these factors lead to a generally upbeat attitude and desire to frolic outside.  Luckily for me, the opportunity presented itself on a fine Thursday morning. 

            Wednesday our students again brought in an assortment of Kurdish dishes to indulge in before Terminology class.  Like sneaky ninjas, they must have made the calculation that if they stuffed us full of delicious food, drew it out right up until class was about to start, and acted all nice about it, we would cancel class.  They were right.  Nobody had the desire to sit and learn after such a feast, and I certainly did not have the motivation to lecture.  During this extended lunch they also told me that a group of the guys were going on a picnic the following morning.  Despite the early departure on my day off, 9am, I felt inclined to accept. 

            I walked to the meeting spot with my deflated American football, hoping that one of my students would triumphantly arrive with a pump in the car.  To my surprise, a bus pulls up with 17 students and tells me to hop in.  I had no idea that this many people would be attending, but it made the atmosphere pretty awesome.  Kurdish music was blasting in the car, and although the smell of cigarettes permeated the bus, their dancing like fools as the bus chugged along alleviated any concerns of carbon monoxide.  We made a pit stop along the way to try and find another CD to play in the bus; while stopped, we enjoyed some shwarma and ice cream, and in the best surprise of the morning, a random store owner had a pump which we used to inflate my football.  The day was going perfectly now. 

            We arrived in Amedy and started to trek up the usual path.  It is a cobblestone road that meanders up the side of a small mountain.  Presently closed shops and summer homes line the path, and a pool with a diving bridge marks the “end” of the public trail.  Beyond that the road continues, but commercial development ceases.  There are new homes under construction but there isn’t much but a foundation and some cinder blocks.  A steady stream continues all the way down to where the cars lay waiting in the parking lot, and even after 10 minutes of walking uphill, we did not come to the source.  There was still a great deal of mountain above us, but given the large size of the group, and a lack of a desire to hike, we stopped after a few additional minutes.  Already, the views were amazing.  (pictures)

            My students and I, mostly my students, were snapping pictures left and right.  I only have a few at the current moment, but once I receive them I will surely post them online.  After about an hour of hanging out on the mountain we started our short descent.  Next, we ended up a small hookah shop which rested on a ledge overlooking the road.  While the boisterous students danced their hearts off, some of the others and I smoked hookah, played Komkin and even some Texas Hold ‘Em. 

After about an hour I was pretty hungry, and I was happy to know that we were heading to lunch.  The restaurant has a wonderful view of Amedy, a pretty city resting on a plateau, and the valleys below.  The food was bland and the service sucked, but I didn’t expect too much from a waiter serving a table of 17 not working for tips.  What was interesting was the game a student came up with while waiting for our food.  It was essentially spin the bottle, but instead of kissing you asked the person a question.  In staying with being a good sport, I obliged to play, and was amused by the direction it took.  Most of the questions involved some form of asking, “Have you had sex before?”  I laughed at the immaturity and pent up desire of it all, especially considering we were certain that some people had lied about their answers. 

            Another question that I asked, and perhaps shouldn’t have, was whether my students thought that non-Muslims are destined for hell.  I have been reading the Qur’an lately and the first 15 pages discuss the status of non-believers like me.  Essentially, I am going to hell.  I have heard similar things from Christians so it isn’t exactly shocking, but it is always an uncomfortable attitude to confront.  We had time, so I wanted to get their responses.  They were mixed, as expected.  Some were forthright in saying “yes,” while others adamantly countered, “no,” and a few refused to publicly respond.  If their level of English was higher, and the group was smaller, I probably would have pressed the issue further.  I can never stray from a good debate/discussion, and I seem to frequently foray into the topic of religion whilst being here. 

           After lunch we took a drive to some cave which overlooks the remains of one of Saddam’s now decrepit palaces.  One of my favorite places, a beautiful lake, is also nearby.  Here we tossed the football while chatting in the sun and danced to Kurdish music inside the much cooler cave.  After some time in the area we started to head back to Duhok, about a 45 minute drive.  I was originally skeptical about being gone for so long with no set schedule, but I am glad that I went.  All in all, it was a really fun day and the perfect start to spring.  

This last picture is the "Deanary," where evidently they churn out deans like yogurt.  

          

Thank God that is over

            I can honestly say that I like about 99% of the people that I meet in Duhok.  Friends that I have known for a months, random repair men, and taxi drivers alike have proved to most adept at making me feel welcome and comfortable.  I have documented their level of hospitality in this blog quite a few times now, as I truly believe their friendliness is top notch.  Given that I have elaborated this point a few times now, you can probably guess that this post will be different.  You would be correct.  This post is about friendliness gone completely awry. 

            There is a man at the gym who I have noticed on a fairly regular basis for a few months now.  Probably around 60 years old, he is portly around the waist but otherwise rather thin; he is most awkward in shape, and given his half-baked workout routine, he will probably remain this way.  His figure means very little to me, but in order to fully describe the peculiarities of this man I must continue.  He comes to the gym wearing low tennis shoes and dress socks, capris, and a tank top that barely extends past his protruding belly.  His arms are fully covered in hair and I think Teen Wolf would be proud.  To top it off, literally and figuratively, his hairline is akin to Friar Tuck and is completely grey, yet his moustache is nearly all black.  His stench is nearly always rancid.  If I had to design a cartoon character of an awkward neighbor who is friendly, yet you always sneak into the house to avoid contact with him, I could simply take this man’s picture. 

            Despite the caricature of his physical traits, he does genuinely try to be nice.  He is always pleasant, even if he never makes any sense.  His level of English is at a low-intermediate level.  He can understand you if you talk to him slowly, but if you want to slip into stealth mode you can speak quickly and it will go right over his head.  It honestly took this man 6 months to even comprehend how to pronounce my name.  I don’t think that it is an overly difficult name, especially considering Rayan is an Arabic word denoting a particular gate to heaven.  But for months he called me Fryan; for a short time he even concocted stupid jokes like, “Why Fryan no fly?”  I endured his childish sense of humor as it was mostly contained to a few minutes at the gym. 

            However, the other day he managed to convince both Paige and I to accompany him to dinner at the Kurdistan Writer’s Union.  Evidently he is a writer who speaks Kurdish, Arabic, Farsi, and some Turkish (he also adds English to the list but that is clearly a stretch.)  After a long day at work and a session at the gym, this oddity of a man is ready to head out.  At this point it was fairly clear to me that he was a weird man, but I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.  Perhaps some more in-depth conversations would purge the intrinsic bias that I had developed.  In a word, NOPE. 

            As he is taking us to Zeri Land to change our clothes after the gym I think he tried to stop at every turn imaginable.  Fearful that I wouldn’t tell him where to go, he naturally assumed that we must live on every possible street corner.  The blinker would continuously go on until I exhorted him to continue driving; it was not until the final turn that he finally understood.  So he picks us up and we head to a new part of town that neither of us had visited before.  The writer’s union is a fairly large building with a gated driveway, only a short distance from the main road, and a large parking lot.  Inside the lot there are a few security guards, and another oddity of a man: a solider wearing a full uniform….and dress shoes. 

            We ascend the stairs to go inside and, I have to say, the building was quite nice.  There were numerous tables adorned with crimson cloths; waiters were dressed in suits or, at minimum, shirts and ties with a vest; most people inside (except for me, of course), were dressed up as well; and there was a woman singing traditional Kurdish music, accompanied by some guitar-like instrument.  The overall atmosphere was pleasant, yet slightly dark.  It was not until a waiter lit a candle that I could even discern what was on the table.  A cart pulls up and, within minutes, our entire table is full of appetizers.  There were warm, freshly baked thin breads with meat on it; hummus; vegetable mixtures; and a few other things that I have no idea what they were.  Overall, the food was quite good and the service was exemplary. 

            The only problem was the company.  Paige and I started off the evening in a slightly subdued, due to teaching and our workout, yet jovial mood.   We were talkative, and even though we didn’t want to drink, we agreed to partake in a few glasses of wine.  It was all downhill from there.  In 6 months in Kurdistan I have never felt pressured to drink.  Even in America the feeling of those around me telling me I “must drink” is now a rarity.  Light prodding may be normal, but that is typically in jest, and once it is clear that you don’t want to drink it stops.  This man picked up on no such social cues. 

            After one bottle of wine, split between three people, Paige and I clearly wanted to stop.  However, it seemed as if at 60 years old it was his first high school party.  Perhaps he has a taste for the sauce, but the tolerance of a child, I do not know.  But every 3 minutes we were trying to “Cheers” something inconsequential in an effort to stimulate Paige and my alcohol consumption.  I was slightly annoyed, yet played along.  Going from one glass of wine to three wasn’t going to kill me. 

            If that were the end of the story, I would not be writing about this now.  With each sip of wine his level of English seemed to get more unintelligible.  A semi-decent conversation turned into babbling incoherence, followed by dumb-sounding chuckling.  I didn’t know whether to shake my head in disbelief or try to take his car keys.  He also got a lot more touchy with Paige.  He sat next to her at the dinner table, and it seemed that every few minutes he would grab her wrist or her hand to articulate some ridiculous point about nothing.  Clearly, he just wanted an excuse to touch her as he spouted effusive compliments about her beauty.  For the first time in Iraq, I felt the genuine urge to protect her.  It was not from terrorism, hijackings, muggings, or anything like that….just an old, drunk man. 

            At this point I am feeling frustrated, and for anyone who knows me, I do not hide my feelings nor do I intend to.  I plainly stated that we are leaving in 30 minutes and we are not drinking anymore.  Two bottles of wine, I felt, would be enough to subdue his 11^th grade urges to party.  This was not the case.  Rather than recognize that it was late, we didn’t want to drink, and we wanted to go home, he ordered 3 glasses of whiskey.  He then proceeded to tell us that it was from the owner of the place and it would be “shameful” if we did not drink it.  By putting on his version of the full-court press he must have imagined that I would capitulate. 

Little did he know that his upping the ante would only further solidify my resistance. From that point forward I refused to even touch my wine glass, let alone the whiskey.  Rather than giving in, I felt the need to prove that I will not be told what to do.  I don’t care if you are paying for the bill or not, a point he felt the need to proclaim, you do not own me.  If I don’t want to do something I am not going to do it; simple as that.  Frustrations were visibly showing at this point.  Paige kept it pleasant and happy, as she always does, while I expressed little care about what he thought.  I told him that I wanted to leave and I refused to drink.  He shook his head, made some comments about my being “shameful”, and babbled some more.  But I did not touch that glass and said I will proudly leave in “shame,” even in a taxi. 

Eventually, the actual President of the Writer’s Union came to sit at our table.  Within a short period he noticed the ridiculous behavior of our awkward companion, and he too asked him to stop.  Luckily for us, he even asked the waiter to take our drinks away and made it clear that we wanted to leave.  He was actually quite friendly and personable.  Although, I must admit, his invitation for us to return will be met with a cold shoulder as I have no reason to hang out with the pear-shaped man again.

I was not entirely comfortable driving home with him, but a quick assessment of the situation led me to believe it would be alright.  It was, as I am now home blogging from the comfort of my lime-green bed adorned with a tulip pattern.  Compared with the rest of the night, I think my bed is actually quite “normal.”