I Have Iraq in My Shoe Page 2

  After a year of hoping and struggling, I had given up on the travel business dream but was so exasperated from living hand to mouth that when I finally got a paying job, I thought, “Cannot. Eat. Cereal. For dinner. Anymore!” I wasn’t willing to tighten my belt to pay down the debt. My belt had been tight for a year, and belts, like ankle straps, were just so restrictive. Suze would have been positively livid and would have spent several years screaming “YOU CAN’T AFFORD IT!” at me.

  I was still carrying a weighty credit card balance that mocked me, monthly, from my statements. Neener, neener, neener—you owe us money! I had watched Suze patiently, but forcefully, explain how you needed to come up with a debt-elimination plan—you were supposed to sit down and plan how long it was going to take you to get out of debt. With $39,000 of debt, I couldn’t bear the thought of even trying to figure that out. It was paralyzing. A lot of debt, and no jobs on the horizon. The deafening cricket chirping was making my ears ring and my brain hurt.

  With this new opportunity I was envisioning my crushing debt being swept away, me flying off wherever I wanted to go, and NEW SHOES! And I might even be able to finally start a savings account. That should probably come before the new shoes, but it probably won’t.

  I wiped my eyes with my Scarlett O’Hara apron, pulled those sorry, few carrots out of the barren earth, shook them at the sky, yelled something about not liking vegetables, then emailed Warren:

  I can’t start until March.

  * All emails, text messages, and other written communications in this book have been copied as they were written, including spelling, grammar, and syntax errors.

  Chapter Three

  Details, Details

  I chose March because I wanted to make sure I was mentally prepared. I needed holiday time with my family and mental time for myself, but in the meantime, I began grilling Warren about anything and everything related to The Iraq. Warren explained a bit about the location of the university, which was in a city called Sulaimaniah*, in the middle of the Kurdistan region of Iraq.

  Warren said Kurdistan was the “safest” part of Iraq and was far from Baghdad and other violence-filled locations. So I was Googling “Northern Iraq weather,” mainly because I wanted to know what kind of clothes I should pack. Along with various weather reports were other kinds of reports:

  18 hours ago: Gunmen kill 4 police officers in Northern Iraq.

  Now wait just a minute, that doesn’t sound safe. The story detailed the growing unrest in the city of Mosul (a city in the allegedly safe Kurdish region of Northern Iraq) and how Christians were being killed. Another story popped up about the increase in female suicide bombers. I decided to stop reading. Ignorance really is bliss. Or, in my case, ignorance will help you proceed with your plan to get out of debt, start a savings account, and travel to places like Turkey, Greece, and The Rest of Europe.

  Warren had said I would be able to start in March, and then asked me to send him an email with “what I wanted” in my contract. I had no frame of reference for this, so I asked him, “What do you mean, what I want?” He continued to speak cryptically and said, “Just email me with what you want—you know, like salary, etc.” But he had already explained to me the salary and vacation, hadn’t he? I was confused, so I just sent this:

  Okay, ideally I would like:

  A contract for 1 year

  $75,000

  July/August off (plus the standard time off you mentioned: 2 weeks in October, month of December off)

  2 weeks off after each term (how long are the terms?)

  A pony

  How’s that?

  I had always wanted a pony.

  Warren responded:

  Gerrrrts,

  Now, the money—okay, extra time off between sessions—maybe okay depending on starts of upcoming programs, and we already have a pony here for you.

  The pony is a big responsibility. As the main means of transportation in and out of the city, you will have to care for “Tyrone” every day and make sure he is happy. I am sure you will do fine.

  So, let’s wait and see now. Maybe a repeat of 1995/1996? Hope this works!

  W

  I responded:

  No repeat of 1995/1996. I don’t want you skipping out two months after I get there.

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

  Will you be able to send an actual contract before you go home for break?

  PSYCHED ABOUT THE PONY!

  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.

  Me: How do you get around?

  Warren: Convo…well, I don’t want to say convoy, but that’s kind of what it is.

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

  Me: What do you eat?

  Warren: Lots of lamb.

  Meh. I could eat lamb, I guess.

  Me: Where do you grocery shop?

  Warren: We get groceries at the local market, and it’s all fresh produce—no preservatives, you have to eat it right away.

  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.

  Me: What about…um, drugstore stuff?

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

  Me: Um, no, you know, drugstore items…like… sunblock…

  Warren: Yeah, I’m not sure about that.

  Me: And other drugstore items…

  Warren: (Confused silence)

  Me: Tampons. Can I get tampons there?

  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.

  Warren: (Laughing) Oh! Yeah, you’ll have to bring tampons—it’s a Muslim country, and they don’t do tampons at all.

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

  Me: What is the year-round weather?

  Warren: Not humid, but it can get up to fifty Celsius in summer…

  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.

  Warren: It’s
hot between March and October. But bring about two months’ worth of winter clothes.

  Me: Is there a dress code?

  Warren: Not really.

  Me: Really?

  Warren: Nah. It’s Northern Iraq, Gerts. It’s different, you’ll see.

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

  Me: How do you get exercise?

  Warren: The compound is very safe. There aren’t any weight machines or anything like that, but you can run or walk around.

  Me: What is the electrical voltage?

  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.

  Chapter Four

  Joan of Arc & She-Ra Will Work for Shoes

  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.”

  This will seem completely crazy to all of you, and initially did to me as well, but I’ve given it some good thought over the past couple of weeks and am DOIN it:

  In March I’m going to go overseas to teach ESL in Sulaymaniya, Iraq.

  Go ahead and digest that. See? Not so bad!

  Here is a CNN clip about the school, where my good friend Warren is Director of Something (he does all the hiring for the teachers and administrative staff):

  [I included the same link Warren had sent me.]

  Warren has sent me a bunch of info on the pay & benefits and both are great. We had a conversation this morning, and I asked him all the important questions, like “Will I have TV?” and “Can I bring my shoes?”

  I am signing a two-year contract, and will be able to pay off all my debt and such. Since Warren is in charge he’s being REALLY flexible about the details, and I will have lots of time off to travel (I think all of July/August/December, plus several weeks here and there). This means I’ll want people to come meet me in places like Greece, Turkey, Croatia…

  Okay, you can keep digesting, but I’ll also welcome your comments. ;)

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

  “Good freaking Lord. Go big or go home! This is beyond big!”

  “Why not Korea? That was fun, no? Or Belize…good snorkeling without the bombing and such. Japan…good sushi and they love Americans. Seriously. No Iraq-y for Gretch-y!”

  “Stay in the Green Zone.”

  “I think it is an amazing experience and think YOU are amazing for taking on this challenge. I mean, who does that? That is just incredible!”

  “You’re probably going to meet some hot Iraqi guy and fall in love.”

  And finally:

  “VERY cool! I want to go!”

  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.

  Since I was going to The Iraq and would be making a substantial salary, I thought it would be okay to buy a new pair of boots. What?! They were on sale! I doubted that I would be able to do any shoe or boot
shopping at all once I moved, and part of my mental preparation was making a point to do all the things I would have to give up. I went to Starbucks, I got together with my friends at the wine bars, I went out for sushi, and I bought new boots. They were Diane von Furstenberg tall, red suede boots with a two-and-a-half-inch heel, which almost made them sensible. They were my Wonder Woman boots, and I loved them so much. My mom did not. “Suede boots? Those will be practical in Iraq” was her official position. I packed them anyway.

  There were other phone conversations with Warren leading up to my departure, during one of which he excitedly informed me that he had “hooked me up” with a unique situation. The main university was located in Suli (the lazy Western abbreviation for Sulaimani). However, Warren had opened up a sort of satellite campus, three hours north of Suli, in a city called Erbil.

  Warren practically gushed about Erbil and went on and on about how all the other teachers would donate a dominant limb to be up there. “Seriously, Gerts, it’s way more of an actual city. There’s a German restaurant, with real German beer—they serve it in steins. There are all kinds of restaurants and places to go out and there are two five-star hotels on either side of the compound where you’ll be living.”

  Me: Really? Five-star hotels?

  I tried to picture a giant, shiny high-rise with a doorman welcoming me, but it didn’t really work.