CPIC used to stand for “Coalition Press Information Center,” but when official sovereignty devolved to Iraq in June of 2004 the name changed to “Combined Press Information Center.”  At some point while I was away CPIC moved from the second floor of the Baghdad Convention Center to a pre-fab set of one-story buildings and trailers in the convention center’s back yard.  After I’d shown my ID and had my luggage searched (or at least eyed suspiciously) three or four times I made it to CPIC’s journo quarters and dropped my luggage on one of the bunk beds.

There’s a jury-rigged quality to everything in the Green Zone (the International Zone, as it was officially renamed when some began using “Green Zone” as a term of abuse).  But there are surprising little luxuries.  The room for journalists has a row of old bunk beds, a couple ratty (but comfortable) couches and an Oriental Carpet.  It also has a reliable free wireless connection.  I spent a little time re-organizing my luggage and then a sergeant came by to take me to dinner.

We rode over in an armored SUV with heavy bullet-proof doors and bullet-resistant glass.  While we drove we mostly chatted a little about the heat (it’s not that bad yet) and where we were from; he’s a National Guard guy from Michigan.  After we got to the cafeteria and found a place to sit we talked a lot about the wonders of private-sector catering in Iraq.

The cafeteria seemed about the size of a football field and didn’t seem to be missing any amenities.  Most of the patrons were soldiers, but unlike in Fallujah or Mosul they weren’t all carrying rifles over their shoulders or leaning them against their chairs.  This being the Green Zone, there were also plenty of civilians around.

On my way to the hamburger grill I got sidetracked at a salad bar as long as a good-sized house and got myself some veggies and pre-packaged Italian dressing.  This was a KBR facility, and while this one was top-of-the-line I’ve eaten well courtesy of KBR all over Iraq.  The ice cream bar in Tal Afar alone is enough to make me forgive Dick Cheney a few sins.

Eating a salad and a hamburger with plastic cutlery all of a sudden made me miss home; if I’d been drinking a beer instead of KBR mineral water it would’ve been perfect barbecue food.  I’d guess feelings like that hit even harder for soldiers who serve here for six months or a year at a stretch.

My military escort said that he ate so well when he first arrived in Iraq that he began putting on weight; now he limits himself to one meal a day to stay in shape.

“They say after a year in the Green Zone you either weigh 300 pounds or can bench 300 pounds,” he said.

After we bussed our trays we swung by the ice cream bar (past steaming trays of peach, apple and cherry cobbler) and got ourselves some milkshakes.  I figured I’d celebrate the first night of my embed; he’s celebrating the exact halfway point of a year-long deployment.

Back at CPIC I discovered the wireless network, got in touch with my Dad and called Mandy on Skype.  Then it was off to Landing Zone Washington (LZ Wash, in accordance with the obsessive military tendency to abbreviate everything).  It’s on the other side of the Green Zone, near the old Republican Palace.  It’s surrounded by high blast barriers and a gate that declares, in bold letters, that this is a secure area where deadly force is authorized.

Last time I was here I waited out on the concrete as choppers came and went.  The sound is not just loud; it’s also violent.  Flying is natural for a plane; the shape of the wing makes it want to lift off the ground.  Jet engines are loud, but not appallingly loud.  The sound of a helicopter is the sound of huge metal blades building enough force to jerk a huge hunk of metal off the ground against its will.  The ride is very smooth, much more pleasant than a plane, but it’s a nasty thing to be near.

There’s now a trailer at the LZ.  One side is an office area dominated by a massive wooden desk.  Along with a couple other reporters I got myself checked in and received a piece of paper with my destination printed on it in huge letters; when you’re near a chopper in the dark it’s better to show a piece of paper than to try shouting.  Aircraft shake the trailer every once in awhile as they fly in and out.

The other side of the trailer is a waiting area—three couches with their brown faux-leather

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I started that last sentence about 26 hours ago, before a soldier came in and told us to get our stuff together because our chopper was a couple hours early.  Instead of sitting around on the couches with their brown faux-leather peeling off, typing and watching “Sunshine State” on Orbit cable TV, I packed my stuff up and headed over to the chopper.  It was a good flight last night followed by a busy day today.  Now I’m out at al Assad air base northwest of Fallujah.  I’ll post more about al Assad and the trip out tomorrow.