I Have Iraq in My Shoe (13 page)

But there was more.

After sitting in the smoky waiting room with a bottle of water and peanut M&Ms, the Austrian Airlines flight number appeared on the television screen suspended from the ceiling, and people began to line up to go through another metal-detecting arch, after placing their carry-on luggage on a small conveyor belt. This was exhausting. And what could I possibly have acquired between the last checkpoint and this one? And I had to go into the little private room for my third date of the day.
No more touching, please!
I decided, at that point, to invest in a steel tank top and matching girdle. I was sure Paris had a lingerie shop with something similar.

I was finally in the last waiting room; the final resting point, where I could sit and ponder if I had done anything to somehow invite the advances of the groping security officials. Was it my fault? Had I inadvertently winked? Raised my eyebrows suggestively? I longed to have a sympathetic psychologist sitting next to me, telling me, “It’s not your fault. It’s
not
your fault.” I felt so dirty.

The final phase of the extraordinarily involved process of departing the Impenetrable Fortress of Erbil was boarding a large shuttle bus, which transported everyone fifty feet out to the Austrian Airlines 737. Upon summiting the metal staircase and entering the aircraft, I half expected the flight attendant to strip-search me and was greatly comforted when she simply smiled and said, “Hello.”

I said “Bonjour!” to Paris. Bonjour croque monsieurs (ham!), chocolate, cheese, wine, shopping, and my old roommate. It was so nice to see a familiar face and to be surrounded by so much opulence. We went a little crazy with the shopping. Rhett went to Paris and bought Scarlett dresses and hats. I went to Paris and bought myself Azzedine Alaïa animal-print booties and Christian Louboutin peep-toe sling-backs. When in Rome, you know.
Oh, now I want to go to Rome.
And really, once you’ve spent $1,600 on airfare, Alaïas and Louboutins seemed almost reasonable.

After a week of
indulgence française
, it was back to The Iraq. I sadly realized I would not, and should not, wear my fancy new shoe purchases in The Iraq if I wanted them to remain fancy. The sloppy combination of unpaved walkways and excessive dust and mud would just ruin them. I had not forgotten immigration, and neither had my Wonder Woman boots. I tucked both boxes into the back of my closet until I could take them back to the United States where they would be safe.

It was strange to think that Paris was a mere hop, skip, jump, and two short plane rides from Iraq. It was like hopping, skipping, and jumping from a trampoline of decadence and landing in a desolate sand trap. That was unfair. I mean, even my warm, adorable, welcoming hometown of Glen Ellyn, Illinois, would not be favorably compared to Paris. Paris was arguably the most beautiful city in the world and was constantly drawing comparisons to other places. Prague was the Paris of Eastern Europe. Beirut was the Paris of the Middle East.

I decided, based on my entirely limited time there, that Erbil could be the Paris of Iraq. You should always focus on what you
do
have rather than what you don’t. Erbil probably had plenty to offer, and it was up to me to find out exactly what that was.

Since the Erbil campus was a relatively new project for the university, things had been a bit slow to start, and Adam and I didn’t begin teaching until several weeks after we arrived. The Kurds were proving to be a fairly noncommittal people, and although Warren claimed to have ten students signed up for a class, I only ended up with two. Adam ended up with zero, so his duties were reduced to “coordinating” until more students signed up for classes. My new class would meet Sunday through Wednesday, the standard university schedule, for three hours each day. Not exactly taxing.

Dalzar and Renas were my two students, and they were quite the pair. Frick and Frack. Chip and Dale. Sonny and Cher. Renas actually did look like Sonny, with a mustache and lively eyes. Dalzar was bald, with a medium build, and had some fierce eyebrows that marched across his forehead in a pointy M. They were both bright, friendly, funny men in their late twenties/early thirties. From what I had seen, the Kurdish people tended to appear ten years older than their actual ages, so my initial guesses were slightly off. I think the premature aging had a lot to do with them having to live through disaster and atrocities that we only read about or see in movies or on TV. And the incessant smoking probably didn’t help.

Dalzar and Renas were my very own Odd Couple. Anytime we had a discussion, those two disagreed. Dalzar was a bit more of a bulldozer and would loudly talk over Renas (and occasionally me) and had the irritating habit of going “uhhhhhhhh” in between words. It was as if he thought that still counted as English, just as long as he was making noise that wasn’t distinctly Kurdish or Arabic. Renas was infinitely more articulate and would politely wait for Dalzar to finish his ranting and “uhhhhhhhhs” before stating his point.

One assignment in the textbook asked the students to “rewrite the sentence using ‘may’ or ‘might’ and ‘be able to.’”

The sentence was:
Maybe you can buy an antihistamine in the gift shop.

The correct answer would be:
You may be able to buy an antihistamine in the gift shop.
Or:
You might be able to buy an antihistamine in the gift shop.

This may (or might) seem like a random, odd sentence, but we had just finished a unit on health issues, so the students were freshly familiar with ailments and medications. Dalzar’s answer, which he read aloud, was: “You might not be able to buy an antihistamine in the gift shop.”

I corrected him and said, “You
might
be able to buy an antihistamine in the gift shop.”

Dalzar said, “No. You
might not
be able to buy an antihistamine in the gift shop.”

We went back and forth in this manner for about a minute. Then I finally gave up and asked, “Why not?” Because Dalzar didn’t think gift shops would sell antihistamines. Never mind that the assignment was merely to revise the sentence; Dalzar wanted to revise the potential offerings of the gift shop because the scenario just didn’t make sense to him. I tried to explain that many gift shops, particularly those in hospitals, would likely offer both gifts
and
medications. Dalzar didn’t seem convinced.

Later on, in class, the subject of weddings randomly came up.

Dalzar may not be able to understand the topic matter at hand
, but you really had to appreciate his willingness to participate in the discussions.

After finishing class, I went over to Adam’s villa to see if he was ready for another
Sex and the City
marathon. He had never seen the show, and I had brought all six seasons with me. You know, in the hockey bags. Basically, if anyone dropped by my villa and asked, “Do you have any…” I would say, “Yes” before they could finish the question. All six seasons of
Sex and the City
? Yes. Giant vats of Bumble & Bumble shampoo and conditioner? Yes. Jars of Trader Joe’s peanut butter? Yes. Enough sheets, comforters, and towels to stock my own white sale? Yes. Stupid hockey bags.
^*

Adam may not be able to share pertinent information with me,
but we may be able to buy antihistamines at the new convenience store!

Chalak was only available to drive us on errands Sunday through Thursday, 9:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m. After that, we were sort of stuck. What happened if I had a sudden relentless urge for chocolate, around 8:00 p.m.? Or on a Friday or Saturday? What would become of me? Now I knew.

Our villas were at the south end of the street. When Chalak took us out and about, we would drive to the middle roundabout and turn right to exit the compound. Had he continued north, two blocks past the roundabout, we would have run into the store. The “store” was a tiny, dusty shack at the end of our compound, with a flashy neon “open” sign, and blocks of soda cans (still no Diet Coke) stacked up right outside the door. Inside the store? So much more. It was a very tiny space, maybe around fifteen square feet, but this was the place to go if you needed peanut M&Ms (yes, please), Baghdad-brand potato chips, cigarettes, toothbrushes, diapers, phone cards, ice cream, cowboy hats, and spangled belt buckles. This place was our very own 7-Eleven, and I was practically shrieking with joy. There is no substitute for close proximity of snacks. PMS is a merciless mistress, and she does not cotton to the MacGyver’d snacks of your almost-empty cupboards. Butter doused in sugar packets and cocoa powder does not a cookie make.

Proximity of convenience store = convenient. Even more convenient? When the store comes to you. “The produce truck is here! The produce truck is here!” I would shout, to no one in particular, when the low-riding fruit-and-vegetable-laden pickup rolled down our street in the Village. The produce truck would stop right across the street in front of the neighbor’s villa (she was a regular), and while it didn’t have the lilting “Do your ears hang low…” song churning out of a crackly megaphone, the honk of the truck’s horn elicited the same ice cream truck reaction I used to have when I was eight.

I would run out, wave to the produce man, then point to the fruits and vegetables that I wanted, and the nice man would put them on the scale with a half-kilo weight, then put them into a small blue plastic bag that smelled faintly of body odor. I would have to scrub the produce after taking it out of the blue plastic bag, but other than that the produce truck was awesome.

The first time I went out to the truck, the nice produce man looked surprised. I don’t think he expected Westerners here. He realized I probably didn’t speak Kurdish, and we had to muddle through the transaction with charades. The next time, when handing my 1,000-dinar notes to him, he said, in halting English, “Three. One, two, three,” indicating that my total was 3,000 dinar (which is around $3.50). I exclaimed “Ah!” to indicate my grateful surprise that he spoke a little English.

The convenience was overwhelming. The truck drives right onto my block and the driver speaks a little English? This was fantastic, as I was not making any kind of effort to learn the local language. So much for assimilating. I learned “Thank you” (“Spass”), and that had served me well so far. In fact, I could say “thank you” in thirteen different languages, as I found it to be the absolute most useful phrase. Everyone loves “thank you.” Plus, remember, I also spoke fluent Friendly Smile.

Reasons I was not learning Kurdish:

• I am lazy.
  

• I am terrible with languages (other than English).
  

• I wouldn’t have been able to use Kurdish anywhere else.
  

• The Kurdish language differs from city to city.
  

Most languages have dialect differences for different regions, but several Westerners here had confirmed that there were actually different Kurdish words for the same things, depending on the city. A Swedish woman, who lived in English Village and worked for a nongovernmental organization, told me how she had been studying Kurdish and was very proud of herself for finally learning how to order a cup of tea. She took a weekend trip down to Suli, where she attempted to order tea in her newly learned Kurdish tongue and was met with confused looks. She was eventually told that the word for spoon was something totally different than what she had learned. I just didn’t want to risk that kind of frustration. And also, as noted, I am lazy.