Read I Have Iraq in My Shoe for Free Online Page B

have Diet Coke, and Warren seemed to be in a hurry and sort of rushed us around the store. He said he would send the driver back with us later to get the groceries we needed. I suspected the Zara “orientation” was less of an orientation and more of an errand to get Pringles for Warren.
    From Zara we drove to the university. The passing scenery was all very beige and very muddy. Sulaimani sits in the mountains of Kurdistan and enjoys a healthy amount of rainfall, particularly in March. We drove down narrow, unpaved roads that were flanked by numerous dilapidated storefronts that seem to be ubiquitous in underdeveloped countries. Coca-Cola? Sprite? Orange Fanta? Hubcaps? Yes. But no Diet Coke. Swarthy, mustached men stood on the sidewalks underneath tangles of overhead telephone wire, smoking cigarettes and gesturing to other swarthy, mustached men. We passed two- and three-story homes that were mostly obscured by high concrete walls, but every so often you could catch a glimpse of heavy burgundy velour curtains or gold-leaf adornments covering balcony doors. I would describe the interior décor as faux-luxe, or understated Trump.
    The university building was a modern, angular, three-story structure with large greenish windows and was set back behind the ever-present cement wall. When we approached the car entrance, we saw an armed guard, bedecked in camouflage and a jaunty beret, who stopped the car to be checked.
    Me: What’s he checking for? Drugs?
    Warren: Bombs.
    Warren’s “safest part of Iraq” speech was still ringing in my ears while the guard ran a long stick with a large mirror attached to the end underneath the vehicle before stepping back and removing the row of guard spikes so the SUV’s tires wouldn’t be punctured.
    In front of the building lay a large gravel parking lot that was mostly occupied by eight trailer-sized “cabins,” where the classes were held. The new university building was under construction, at a separate site five miles away, and this was the temporary facility, Warren explained.
    “This is Iraq,” I kept saying to myself. “I’m in Iraq.”
    We walked up the front steps and into the lobby of the main building, where Iraqi students, both male and female, were milling around and chatting with one another. No one was wearing a black tablecloth. All were dressed in Western clothing, with some of the girls wearing colorful headscarves. I was too jet-lagged and bewildered to notice much more than what people were wearing.
I’m in Iraq. This is weird.
    Steve and I had to meet with the university’s human resources director, Rana, a very pretty Kurdish woman around my age who had spent roughly ten years living in the United States and was fluent in both Kurdish and English (I quickly learned that the Kurds were the main ethnic group, and Kurdish, not Arabic, was the local language). She welcomed us to sit in the chairs in front of her desk and said to me, “Oh, you’re the one who will be in Erbil, right?” I nodded, still not really knowing what that would entail. Rana’s office was like the rest of the building: it was fairly stark with high ceilings and heavy dark furniture. After sitting down, Rana handed us copies of our contracts, and we reviewed the details. My pony was not discussed, nor could I find mention of it anywhere in the paperwork.
    Rana had a small pamphlet titled “Cultural Awareness” for us to review and keep for reference. Number one on the pamphlet was “Dress Code.”
    Dammit, Warren.
    1.   Female: Please do not wear:
Shorts
Low-cut tops
Short tops
Short skirts and dresses
Tank tops
    I exclaimed, “Yikes, I’m wearing a tank top right now!” (Although it was under a cardigan sweater.)
    “Just don’t take your sweater off,” Rana replied.
    Okay, crisis averted. I noticed that Rana’s ensemble followed the code, technically. Nothing was short or low-cut, but everything seemed awfully snug. I then asked, “Does Warren know about this