How I got to Baghdad

In the other, more mundane sense of the phrase, but venturing into a country like Iraq can scarcely be described as mundane, so I figure it makes an interesting post. And perhaps I'll hold the attention of my roomate better, who upon reading my last post initially could not remember whether he had read it or not. And when realizing that he had, said "Oh yeah, it was really long and I was reading and reading and you hadn't even got to the airport yet." Perhaps he is not really my audience... But for you Dear Reader, I'll soldier on.

How was the trip to Baghdad? In a word, long. And the length of it makes sense, given that I started my day in the veritable cradle of the longest enduring representative democracy, Williamsburg, Virginia, and ended it in the cradle of civilization itself, Mesopotamia, Babylon, Assyria, the fertile Crescent.

I woke the day of my departure in the same room that I spent my formative years (although the Farrah Fawcett poster is long since down from the wall, and Farrah herself is sadly now departed from this earth). I roused in the first floor cubby that was my bedroom from the time I was seven until I turned eighteen and fled the comfortable nest to the wild wonders of Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I spent the morning with Skippy Jr. and packed a few last minute things, before climbing into the car at about 2pm on Friday, August the 14th with my parents and Skippy Jr. as well.

We drove north. First on I64, then 295 around Richmond, and then I95 North, the two hundred yard wide strip of hell that runs from Richmond, Virginia to Washington, DC. (Actually the highway runs from Miami, Florida to the Canadian border near Houghton, Maine, but you will have a hard time convincing me that there is any stretch of it more hellish than that 45 or so miles between Fredericksburg and the Mixing Bowl. (For my non-East Coast dear readers have a gander at this and be glad you live far away.)

However, the highway gods were kind (other fools had sacrificed their days to the concrete totems) and we were not held up by traffic on our way to Dulles Airport.  We stopped for a final dinner for YDS in Reston.  More specifically at an upscale chain restaurant in Reston Town Center, that remarkable testament to planned urban sprawl.  And typically for an American family the choice of cuisine was ethnic, Italian to be exact, and as good as you might expect from that type of restaurant in that type of place.

But I must admit that I scarely remember tasting the food as my thoughts were elsewhere.  I felt strangely and prematurely detached from my son as I watched him squirm in his chair and flirt shamelessly with the waitresses.  His outward motion relected my inner disquiet and it was clear to any willing to read the signs that we shared the same conflict.

Dinner ended and when a stroll of the pedestrian mall did not yeild a toy store, much to Skippy Jr.'s dismay, we climbed back into the car for the final seven miles to Dulles.

No one would confuse Dulles International Airport with a country cottage surrounded by a white picket fence, but never has the hideous testament to modern architecture looked so foreboding.  Dulles is one of my least favorite airports -- it is cold, confusing, and hard to get around in -- and pulling up to the building to leave for Iraq did not enhance its standing in my estimation.  But pull in we did, and after a squabble regarding whether to park in the valet parking without consulting the valet (thankfully, we did not), we were out of the car and headed for the check in counters.

Skippy Jr. waited with me patiently, strangely so, as traveler after traveler moved to the almost fully automated kiosks and began their journeys to more pleasant, but perhaps less interesting destinations.  My turn came and then I had my boarding pass, and my bag was checked (only three pounds overweight).  And then it was time.  I kissed my son and hugged him.  I told him how proud I was of him, for who he was and who he was growing to be.  I promised that I would be home soon and told him of the great time we would have when I was back.  Thinking of it now, it feels as though I was shouting those platitudes into a windstorm.  As though the force of the event ripped the words from my mouth as soon as I could form them and swept them away so that I could not be sure that they reached my son's ears to comfort him.

And he did so well, he was so strong, until I began to stop waving and to walk around the corner to the security check point.  It was then that he began to cry.  It was then that the moment was too much for him, too hard for him to think of three months apart.  I waved again and came back for one final hug and probably told him some further meaningless encouragement, but ultimately, he was crying and was going to continue to cry.

That awful fact was confirmed by a message on my cell phone once I made it though security.  It was a new call and had just come in moments before from my parents' cell phone.  It was Skippy Jr. still crying and sad and wanting to say goodbye one more time.  I returned the call immediately but my parents had switched the phone off.

So there I stood, with my shoes untied and my belt undone, staring at the phone in my hand and cursing my parents near paranoic compulsion with turning off the cell phone and realizing the full force of the fact that I had agreed not only for myself but for my sweet seven year old son, that I would spend a full year in a war zone far removed from my family and from the one person I love more than anyone or anything in the whole world.  That was the choice I had made.

Off to a grand start, wouldn't you say, Dear Reader?

Hoping against hope that my trip had reached an early nadir, I tied my shoes, buckled my belt and headed for the gate.  I was there far too early and so had only time to kill as I waited for the first leg of my odessey, an overnight flight to London's Heathrow to take off.  I read, I listened to music, I tried to write (unsuccessfully).  The highlight was watching the author of Iraqi Chicken (another fine blog) and her husband breeze by on their way to first class seating for the seven hour flight.  The Chicken's husband's comment was something like "What are you earning it for if not to spend?"  An admirable thought, but I was nowhere near that blithe at that particular moment.

The flight was unremarkable and forgettable.  Nowhere near as long as the transcontinental, trans-Pacific marathon I endured in May, but long enough in its own right.  A fair part of the trip was spent in numb dread of Heathrow.  Having never heard a single good word spoken about the place, I was prepared for something of a cross between the Ministry of Information in Terry Guillam's Brazil and a 1984 style government building.

I was not prepared for it to be somewhat pleasant.  I was annoyed by the absolute refusal of airport authorities to post the departure gate until one hour before the plane was due to arrive but found plenty of open and airy (if noisy) lounges to wait and people watch in.  I read again, and listened to music and debated having something to eat ultimately settling on a fast food sandwich that didn't taste completely like cardboard.

Finally, the gate was assigned and it was time for the next leg of YDS's journey up the river:  from London to Amman, Jordan.

This post has gotten really long, so I'll say ... to be continued.