I'm back in Baghdad as of yesterday afternoon.  On America's Independence day I flew from Madrid to Paris, ran through de Gaulle airport to make my connection, and flew on to Amman.

For some reason the Amman Four Seasons, where I stay at a huge discount arranged by a miracle-working Jordanian travel agency, gave me a free room upgrade two nights ago.  So I capped off my Fourth of July in a massive suite with two bathrooms, a gigantic sitting room, and a bedroom with a king-sized bed.  That bedroom also had a walk-in closet, two night stands, an easy chair, a TV and a DVD player.  The sitting room had a couch, an easy chair and a glass coffee table, in addition to the dining room table (which seats four) next to the minibar.  The minibar was under a seven-foot long, four-foot high mirror.  There was also a chest of drawers, a second closet, and a second TV/DVD combo.  Everything was done up in classic understated Four Seasons style—champagne drapes and carpets, furniture in dark woods and cream upholsteries, what looked like a knock-off (or, who knows, maybe real) Caucasion rug in lieu of a bathmat in the cavernous multi-chambered master bath.  I sat with my feet on the coffee table watching Germany lose to Italy in the last moment of their World Cup semi-final.

The next morning, after spending 12 hours and entertaining no guests in the nicest hotel room in which I ever slept, it was off to the other end of the comfort spectrum:  standing in line in front of the Iraqi embassy in Amman to pick up my entry visa into Iraq.  I was in line at around 8:40 am, and they supposedly opened at 9 am.  I was bracing myself to wait until 9:30 for the line to start moving, but to my surprise they opened at ten after.  The details aren't really that interesting, but I ended up moving back and forth between the ground-floor visa application office, the consul's second-floor office, and some kind of administrative purgatory via a crowded main room full of sullen visa applicants.

I'd been under the impression my visa was waiting for me, and that all I'd have to do was give them my name and a reference number and get the visa stamped in my passport.  Of course, I knew it wouldn't be that easy.  But I didn't expect I'd have to pay 30 Jordanian dinar (the dinar is worth a bit more than the US dollar) and pull a couple of spare passport photos out of my luggage (which was sitting in the trunk of a car parked on a sidestreet outside the embassy).  I was wondering if my miracle suite would be available for a second night when I finally got the visa.  I think—thought I'm not sure—that the misunderstanding was my fault.  Everyone was certainly friendly enough, which was a blessing.

Baghdad Airport was what I've come to expect.  When we got off the plane a hellish wind was blowing.  For absolutely no reason there was an SUV parked near the plane and a security contractor in a floppy hat and sunglasses was scowling in our direction and cradling an assault rifle.  Maybe that was the airport's way of discouraging complaints about the un-air-conditioned busses that ferried us to the un-air-conditioned terminal.  Apparently the passport drones at Baghdad Airport were as surprised as the rest of the world that you can catch a commercial flight into Baghdad, because we all stood around for ten minutes before anyone showed up at the passport control booths.  That done we picked up our checked luggage and moved towards customs.

I had nothing to declare.  In front of me another reporter, weighed down with equipment, was getting ready to open his bags when an Iraqi speaking surprisingly good English asked him if he'd filled out a customs declaration listing all of his gear.  Of course he hadn't, because there's no rule saying you have to and the appropriate form is fictitious.  I saw where this was going and shuffled discreetly into another line.  The bribe this other journalist eventually paid was nothing too severe.

I'd heard about reporters getting shaken down on their way into the country but I'd never seen it first-hand.  I've also never run into a Baghdad Airport employee with better English than yesterday's customs extortionist.  A fine example of where worldliness and language skills can get you in the new Iraq.

 

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