The Time Between

From Kabul, I flew to Dubai, a luxurious city of skyscrapers, limousines, and exclusive hotels. I was met by an MSF volunteer, who drove me to a hotel somewhere in the crush of gleaming buildings, posh malls, and people, the women in long black abayas and veils, only their eyes peeking out, the men in fancy suits and shoes so shiny they seemed to catch the sun. If Bangkok had overwhelmed me, then Dubai just might send me over the edge. Two days before, I’d been listening to the chewing of my mystery ceiling roommate, swatting at enormous flies, heating water for a bucket bath and washing my own clothes by hand, and yet, in the blink of an eye, I was in the midst of more luxury and extravagance than I’d ever seen anywhere.

The hotel was likely average by Dubai standards, sumptuous by my own. Still dressed in traditional Afghan clothes, I’d planned a long soak in a warm bath, but I’d spied a bar on the way in, dark and smoky and mysterious, the hum of conversation and clink of glasses streaming through the entryway. The hell with my bath; I wanted to ditch my brogue and have a glass of wine. Trouble was, I had no money. In my room, I fished in my pockets and my backpack and came up with a few Afghan rupees, one euro, and two American dollars. Undaunted, I combed my hair, reapplied my lipstick, draped my head scarf over my shoulder, and headed down to the bar, wondering if I could afford a glass of wine and a moment of luxury on my paltry pocket money.

I took a seat at the bar and looked around. I was the only woman in a sea of men, and I knew immediately that my grimy skin, limp hair, and Afghan clothes wouldn’t matter. I was right. Within minutes, two men offered to buy me a drink. “White wine,” I agreed, nibbling on the free appetizers—not the rich cheeses and breads I might have expected in Dubai but peanuts and potato chips in little bowls scattered along the mahogany bar. But beggars can’t be choosers. I’d fill up on peanuts and wine and head to bed soon. I had an early flight to Paris.

Don, a balding, big-bellied man in a plaid shirt, signaled the bartender for my first glass of wine and settled in to tell me his own story—something about oil fields and a home in England, but I was barely listening. I was watching the overhead television, looking for news of Iraq, but there was nothing. Edouard, a Frenchmen (wouldn’t you just know?) nodded his head, and a second glass of wine appeared. He was more interested in hearing about me than sharing his own particulars, but I was wary and gently deflected his questions. After a second glass of wine and a sip or two of the third, Edouard invited me to his room. I wasn’t surprised that he’d ask. Don frowned at being edged out, but he needn’t have worried. “No thanks,” I said, sliding from my stool. “I have an early flight.” A deep crease appeared in Edouard’s forehead. He cleared his throat. “So, you know, I thought . . .” he began, his smile fading, his accent thicker than it had been only a moment earlier.

“Thank you again,” I said, waving him off as I slipped quickly from the bar and back to my room. The next morning, I rose late, just barely making my flight to Paris, where I was interviewed at the MSF office to see how the mission had gone. MSF had booked me into a rooming house, and I made my way from the office into the Paris subway and then through the winding streets to my place, a single room in a third-floor walk-up with a shared bathroom and no television. There was still no news of Iraq, no talk in the MSF office, no headlines in the newspaper kiosks on the streets of Paris. I was beginning to think it was only a rumor.

Less than two days later, I was almost giddy as I boarded my flight for home, and there, I learned it was true. The United States was planning to invade Iraq.