I Have Iraq in My Shoe (3 page)

(Warren had broken his one-year teaching contract in Korea and left after two months without telling anyone.)

No one names their pony Tyrone though. Honestly.

Warren called me to discuss the many, many details and answer my many, many questions. He explained that he could “get me a better deal” if I signed a two-year contract. Sharp inhale of breath. Two years in Iraq? Then, he also explained that there was a caveat in the contract that stated something like, “At any time employee or employer may give sixty days written notice, and the university will fly you home.” Well, that sounded almost like the two-year contract part was somewhat unnecessary, but it also sounded like precisely the kind of escape hatch with which I would feel quite comfortable.

I then set to work, asking Warren the same types of hard-hitting questions Christiane Amanpour probably asked rebel freedom fighters about their living conditions:

“Do the apartments have TV?”

TV makes me feel more connected to the world. I could press the nice, red power button and see what was happening in Washington, D.C., or New York, or London, or the Land of Make-Believe. (When I say “see what’s happening,” I mean see what sitcoms or movies are playing.)

Warren confirmed I would have TV. “Yes, you can get a few regular channels for free, including CNN, movie channels, or for $70 a month you can get the full range of stuff you get at home.”

I was sold. Go ahead and book my ticket. Okay, not really, but that small bit of information did make me feel better.

Hmmm, that sounded covert and exciting. I was imagining tanks.

Meh. I could eat lamb, I guess.

This confused me, as it sounded like Warren was unfamiliar with how fresh produce worked. Of course you’d have to eat it right away. Otherwise it would mold or rot, right? I mean, I didn’t cook, but I did eat, and I felt like I knew a thing or two about fruit.

Warren thought I meant medicine and started discussing various medications, which was not what I needed to know.

I tried to say “tampons” in a Christiane Amanpour-ish British accent to make it sound less pedestrian and embarrassing, and by the time I finally blurted out the sentence it no longer sounded like a question. It was a flat statement.

Yikes. I wondered if they had to use those old-timey sanitary napkin belts, like in the Judy Blume books.

Warren was Canadian and forgot that we Americans foolishly cling to an entire system of temperature/climate measurement no one else in the world used. I would just double-check it on an online conversion website.

Crap, 50 Celsius was hot. It was like 122 in regular, American degrees.

No dress code? In a predominantly Muslim country? That seemed odd, but at least I wouldn’t have to wear the black tablecloth.

At this point the rest of the Q&A could be considered travel guide fodder, so I won’t bore you with the details. But, 220v.

Since Warren had said he was “doing all the hiring” and was the director, I had a moment of unease. I said doubtfully, “You’re not going to be my
boss
, are you?” He paused and answered, “No…” Extended pause. “I mean, not really. Kind of—I mean, you’ll report to me, but you’re going to really be doing your own thing.”

Warren knew me well enough to know that I would not want him to be my boss. In Korea we had been coworkers, and I never considered him someone I could take orders from. I had seen him dance.

*
 You will see “Sulaimaniah” spelled in a variety of different ways. The Kurds can’t seem to agree on one particular way to Anglicize the spelling, and neither can I.

I sent the following email to friends who I thought might react with confounded shouts of “Whaaaaaaaa?” if I didn’t tell them before posting Facebook status updates from Iraq, like “Gretchen Berg is suffering in this fifty-degree (Celsius) weather.”

And I did. I welcomed their comments, which were varied, hilarious, a little bit paranoid, and a lot ludicrous.

And finally:

No one
really
wanted to go, though.

There were some people who reacted as if I were doing something noble and courageous. They used those words, which had me immediately imagining myself as a modern-day Joan of Arc, wearing a chain-mail tunic with matching headband, brandishing a sword high above my head. I may have had Joan of Arc confused with She-Ra. I thought to myself,
Well, it would be more noble and courageous of me if I weren’t being paid enough to eliminate my sizable credit card debt, and if I weren’t being given outlandish travel opportunities.
To me, it wasn’t so much noble or courageous as necessary and self-serving. No one likes to have Suze Orman screaming at her.

I did not have as easy a time explaining the decision to my family. “No,” “Absolutely not,” and “You are NOT going to Iraq” were the respective responses of my mom, dad, and sisters when I broached the subject. My dad’s was the most vehement, which was surprising—I had expected my mom to put up more of a fuss.

That my dad was so staunchly opposed to the idea was almost more of a selling point than anything else. Gordon Berg was perpetually criticizing my life choices. When I decided to do my student teaching in New Zealand, his response was “
Oh
, no. How much is
that
going to cost me?” When I wanted to teach English in Korea, he questioned the legitimacy of the hiring company. When I wanted to quit my dead-end sales job to explore my talents as a copywriter, he could only point out the instability of the new company and the lack of medical benefits. When I wanted to buy a car while living in Seattle, he waxed poetic about the city’s public transportation system and lambasted the soaring costs of auto insurance and car payments.

He loves me and means well, but my dad and I have extremely opposing views on how to live life. My dad subscribes to the “work at the same job for sixty years, never spend your money, never take any risks” life plan. That plan sucks. The longest I have ever worked at any one company was three and a half years, I never met a balance-transfer option I didn’t like, and I have indulged in behavior that could be considered risky, including bungee jumping, skydiving, and drinking tap water in Indonesia. And now I was going to Iraq.

I had to remind everyone that I was a grown-up and could make my own decisions and that no one was the boss of me! And since I was technically unemployed, that was a very true statement: no one
was
the boss of me. After explaining the benefits of accepting the position, and relaying everything Warren had told me about the school and the region, my family reluctantly acquiesced. Jessie and my youngest sister, Ellie, agreed to try to figure out how to use Skype. My parents agreed to accept my mail, take care of my fat, furry kitty cat Herb, and store some of my shoes.

I hated the thought of leaving any of my shoes behind. As impractical as I could be at times, I was pretty sure my sojourn in Iraq would not present occasion to wear multicolored, silk Ferragamo cocktail sandals or brown suede Valentino rosette pumps. Those would have to stay in America, safely boxed up in the storage unit, and I would miss them. I was the single, cat-having, shoe-obsessed girl. Clichés and stereotypes exist for a reason.
Because they happen
. I loved my shoes. I loved them so much that I would often sit around my apartment, in pajamas or sweats, wearing various pairs of fancy high heels, occasionally holding them out to Herb for appraisal.

The obsession extended beyond shoes. I admittedly had a problem/issue/fixation with all kinds of clothing. I blamed this on my mom, who littered our home with issues of
Vogue, Bazaar
, and
Glamour
when I was growing up. Don’t give girls fashion magazines in their formative years if you expect them to wear sensible shoes.

In high school I used to make lists of every outfit I wore (if Excel spreadsheets had been around in the ’80s I would have been in
heaven
), and I would then review those lists to ensure I did not duplicate an outfit more than once in a month.
Why? That’s ridiculous. Who would notice? Or care?
Me. I would notice
and
care. Variety is the spice of life. It is also the spice of wardrobe. That’s a lesser-known idiom, sure, but just as true.

Different people have different passions for indulgence: video games, Cuban cigars, subwoofers, television sets the size of billboards, first-edition books, Fabergé eggs, art. My passion was fashion. Judge if you must.