I Have Iraq in My Shoe (37 page)

The next morning we had to be up and ready by 9:00 a.m., per the instruction of the ever-demanding diva/tour guide. “Don’t be late!” he had warned. He was just so unbearably arrogant. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, then strolled into the hotel’s lobby at 9:10 a.m., and were rewarded with Kamil huffily standing up from his couch and pointedly looking at his watch. Josh and I stifled our immature, punchy giggles and climbed into the SUV.

Kamil took us to the Muscat Fish Market and to the main bazaar. By the time we had gotten to the bazaar, I was done with him. I could not bear the thought of being led through the bazaar stalls, with him pointing out the obvious, “This a silver shop. This a dish-dash shop. This a sweet shop,” and ordering us to photograph things. My suggestion to split up, and then reconvene after a half hour, was met with an indignant and discourteous “Fine.” We shopped in blissful Kamil-free-ness and enjoyed the sights, sounds, and smells of the souk. We laughed and took pictures of things Kamil would not have recommended, and finally bought tacky tourist T-shirts that said “Oman” in cursive, with a silhouette of a camel. When the half hour was up, we met back up with Kamil, climbed into the car, and enjoyed a quiet ride back to the Shangri-La. We would never have to see him again. It was a happy day.

Dadyar picked me up, on time, at the airport. It was actually a relief to return to Kurdistan, as it was far less conservative than Oman had been. I didn’t have to have my hair covered just to go out driving in the car.

After unpacking, I needed to go to Ainkawa to pick up some wine. Dadyar handed me the car keys and motioned toward his Hyundai Santa Fe SUV, indicating that I could drive us to Ainkawa. He climbed in the passenger side and said, “Ainkawa! I need wine!” like he was me.

In the months since the airport fiasco, Dadyar had really put forth more of an effort in his job and had grown on both Steve and me. He wasn’t the type of employee to show radical initiative, but when we asked him to do something, he did it. He was reliable, good-natured and good-humored, not in the least bit creepy, and he didn’t smoke. Based on what we had seen of other possible alternatives for drivers, we really couldn’t have done much better. The fact that he suggested I drive to the produce stand just gave him a few extra points.

I had been there for so long that I found it strange when the locals stared at me as I drove along in the Hyundai. “What? I’m local. I live here now.” I was still patiently waiting for those five-star hotels to be completed, but as I pulled out of the English Village gates, I looked to my right and gasped. There, literally within walking distance of our villa, was a Costa Coffee. It looked legitimate, unlike when I had started at the sight of a building with a dirty “Microsoft” billboard running along the rooftop. This Costa Coffee appeared to be the same Costa Coffee I had enjoyed at London’s Gatwick Airport.

It was later confirmed, by people who knew things, that the Costa Coffee was indeed a legitimate branch of the international chain. If I was going to be stuck in Erbil, I needed to focus on the positives. Costa Coffee was a definite positive.

*
 A Chinese company called Gigimo was selling something called an Artificial Virginity Hymen, which was a small packet that would be inserted into the vagina and would release a small amount of fake blood “when your lover penetrate.” My guess would be this is selling in slightly greater quantities in Islamic nations than anywhere else. They could put it right there on the shelf next to the Virginity Soap.

Warren had all but physically left The Iraq. I hadn’t heard anything from him since November and the Crazy Andy debacle, although I knew he was back in Suli. His most recent Facebook status update was “Dreaming of Maple Leaves.”

The bad news in Erbil just kept coming. Steve and I had been back for an entire week, with no sign of Georgie Catstanza. I thought he would eventually “feel” that we were back and trot on over, but there was no sign of him. Katherine hadn’t even seen him anywhere.

Mecca had also closed. The J&K Women’s Fitness Center had been closed for good, at least the fitness center part of it. I had no idea if the closing was related to the rumor of ill-gotten funds, and I silently cursed the unscrupulous owners. The one bright spot was that the salon was still open, and I would still be able to get my pedicures from Sangela.

Married Ashton, the security guy who had been calling, had moved on to a beautiful Spanish girl who worked for an NGO. According to Katherine, they were having quite the raging affair. I was sorry for his Russian wife and wondered if she was as unhappy as he was.

My visit to Psychic Sahar had cleared my head about the Awat situation. I found myself in a very secure, magnanimous place after my reading, and being at home, surrounded by family at Christmas helped to put things into perspective. I listened to the audio file of the reading a couple of times and spent a few days contemplating my entire relationship with Awat. When Sahar had said he wasn’t the man for me, it was almost like she had pushed a secret “release” button, and instead of bemoaning the loss of my attachment to him, I felt clear. Once I was home, spending time with my family and connecting with my friends, I reached the point of thinking, “How could I have ever thought that situation was real?” Awat was truly a decent, funny person, and I was grateful for the friendship we had created, but a soul mate? Nuh-uh.

I was enjoying all the cheery, goodwill-toward-men Christmasness when I randomly came across something that made me think of Awat: a book about soccer star Cristiano Ronaldo, written by Cristiano himself, titled
Moments
. Cristiano Ronaldo was one of the world’s best soccer players and was an icon even in Iraq. Awat idolized him. He would love the book. I decided to buy it for him as a birthday gift.

Since I hadn’t had any communication with him for three months, I wasn’t sure if he would want to see me, so I sent him an email:

He sent a fairly subdued response one week later:

This was not his usual happy-go-lucky tone. It seemed somber and professional. He may have been angry or upset about how I had ended things, I couldn’t quite tell, but I was finally in a healthy mental space about the whole thing and selfishly wanted to give him the present. Giving special presents was one of my favorite things, and once I had the gift in my possession, it became a sort of hot potato that I couldn’t wait to give away.

That got a better response. No one can resist presents. And really, people hate to see me cry. It’s sort of unsettling.

Awat called me after sending the email, and we had a really nice twenty-minute phone conversation, where he told me he was working as a lawyer and that he had a new girlfriend. I was actually relieved to hear that.

So this sounded really good. He was becoming a grown-up. He had a job. He had just one girlfriend, and she wasn’t even his cousin! Excellent news. I didn’t ask if he was still sleeping in his mother’s bedroom. That was no longer my problem.

We agreed to meet at the coffee shop located above Zara when I went down to Suli the following weekend. It would be great to see him, and I thought the meeting would provide some closure for me. He mentioned in an email that he had something important to tell me and asked that my driver not accompany us. That was intriguing, and since the driver never comes with me, that wasn’t a problem. But I was so curious about the “important thing”! Maybe he was getting engaged to his new girlfriend?

I was kind of nervous, in that way you get when you haven’t seen someone in a long time. I had stopped thinking of him in a romantic capacity, and I dressed as casually as possible, wearing my comfortable banana-colored Frye cowboy boots, so there wouldn’t be any chance of anyone mistaking this as a date. There was no need for Wonder Woman today. Sirwan dropped me off at Zara, and I walked up the stairs to the coffee shop and looked around. I didn’t see Awat, so I chose a booth, with my side facing the stairs so I could see him when he arrived.

As he walked up the stairs, I took in the visual. Awat was wearing a suit, which seemed odd, as Friday was a weekend day here. The suit was bad. Not at all like what he had worn to the party back in October. This was definitely a “Two Wild and Crazy Guys” suit, with its pastel colors and checked pattern situation. He was wearing the suit with a bright pink shirt and silver tie, and his pants were too tight. When he sat down, I could see out of the corner of my eye that there was a golf-ball-size hole in the crotch. He looked so different than I had remembered. I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed. It was an overall feeling of
less
. He looked…really, just like any other Kurdish guy on the street.

I waved and we both said, “Hi!” in unison as he sat down across from me. When he was settled, I asked, “Why are you wearing a suit? Did you have to work today?”

“No, it is my day off!” he said.

“Is that all for me?” I asked him.

And he shrugged and said, “Yes!”

Well, the intention was very sweet, but he had this blue, plaid button-down that I really liked and… No, no, I reminded myself. We had finished with that.

Awat ordered two cups of tea from the waiter, and I pulled the bag with his book out from under the table and handed it to him. He reached into the bag and slid the book out and looked at the cover. I watched expectantly. The curiosity on his face broadened into a wide grin, and he looked at me with his hand on his heart and said, “Cristiano! Thank you very much!” I clasped my hands with glee and singsonged a “You’re welcome.” I loved a successful gift reception.