An Ordinary Day in Erbil

It's one hundred and sixteen degrees today. I'm beginning to understand why no one knows the actual temperature here. One is better off not knowing that it truly is as hot as hell outside. We hail a taxi after banging the gate closed. I immediately regret leaving behind the comforts of the swamp cooler in the den. The taxi smells like musk and body odor. I'm not gagging at the strong smells as much as I was before, most likely due to the fact that I have found a place for these sorts of smells in my brain; and I can compartmentalize them without my entire nervous system responding in revulsion. To put things more simply: it's hot, people stink, deal with it.

We dodge all kinds of moving objects as we coast down the paved roadways. I see a biker coming up on my left side. I always sit behind the driver so that I can hide from his attempts to stare at me in the rear view mirror. It's one of those acts of avoidance that really works for me. The biker idiotically pedals up the wrong side of the busy street and the taxi driver barely misses clipping his tire. I sit with hands perched on the window getting as much action as I would in a James Bond movie. The biker doesn't flinch. Fascinating and frightening. We drive on, swerving in and out of lanes, the driver hoping to gain an inch of road on any car he can. The swerving is starting to feel normal and it's only been two weeks. I'm worried that this is going to have a bad effect on my driving and on Aaron's. I pop back up from the window and lean back, my shirt is already damp. We're off to a very normal day in Iraq.

Aaron is ready to speak Kurdish, I see it in his body language. He's leaning forward, his eyes are twitching as the cogs in his brain start moving. I can hear them, they're so loud. He's already striking up conversation with the taxi driver. I roll my eyes and wait for it. "You are my brother! You are Kurd!" The taxi driver exclaims with simultaneous glee and magnitude. This happens a few times a day. I'm still not really sure how we've done most things here without a translator. My only explanation is that Aaron possesses a mysterious gift for cross-cultural communication. It's like one of my brother's magic tricks: I don't know what just happened and I probably never will. He is just that good. We pop into furniture shops looking for beds. I've been looking for a bed for days it seems. The beds here are interesting to say the very least. I spot one in the corner that looks nice. I inch a little closer and begin to feel my face contort. Not again! It's a black, platform bed with fake, diamond bands strategically placed all around the head board. I actually don't know what the strategy was for those, but there definitely was one. I must not have an eye for this style of design yet. I'm not sure I ever want to. Finally, we happen upon a bedroom set that seems more low-key. We both look at each other and run for the manager. I'm convinced it was the only one of its kind in all of Kurdistan. Aaron speaks Kurdish with the manager and has the bed delivered to our house. I'd be sleeping on the floor if it weren't for him.

We hi-five each other and jump in another taxi. Aaron drops me off to go to the used bazaar with Maria. The Langa bazaar is a place of wonder. I think that I could write an entire book on this place. It's like walking into a circus. There are giant tents with rusty poles. The shops are built in a maze that seems unending. We pass a spice cart that smells of dark paprika, sage and tirish. Black-cloaked women stare with dark curious eyes, hunched over, just as devoted as we are to finding the deals and not getting ripped off. We wander into a junk shop full of treasures for my new kitchen. I find can openers, German beer mugs, pizza cutters, hand-painted plates from Vienna, sewing scissors and other odds and ends. The obese shopkeeper leans back in his metal chair, his brown, wrinkly hands folded on his belly. We pick up his stuff in admiration and I know he's mulling over how he can "cut our arms", as the Kurds say. After we've stock-piled our useful garbage, we begin the bargaining. I pick the scissors up and ask, "pa chanda?" (how much?). He says it's 8 thousand dinars. I put it back where I found it and he yells, "5 thousand!". I shake my head. He grabs a baby outfit holds it out for me to cut with the scissors. Maria tells me that he is saying how sharp the scissors are. I close the scissors on the fabric and they don't cut. He insists that I try again. They cut finally and I nod in approval, but they're still overpriced. I put them down and he slinks back to his corner with the shredded baby outfit. We buy a few things from him after more bartering and then we move on. Each shop plays out in a similar way. Maria and I do our best to get a good deal by assuming that we are about to be taken advantage of and frowning and setting things back down until we get a good price. The most basic economic theory is on our side: they want to sell, we want to buy. Haggling is part of the game and we have to be willing to play dirty!

We wind our way out of the spider's web and back to another taxi. Once we arrive home, I realize how exhausted my legs are and how sticky my neck is. It was a filthy, tiring trip but we sure did find the bargains. Aaron and I go home after dinner. As we ride in the taxi, the sun is setting. Dust blankets the city like a veil of silk covering the setting sun. Burnt orange and brown are the colors of Erbil. We scurry through the gate, dragging our cheap, plastic bags of precious junk. We collapse on the couch and rest. I look at Aaron and say, " it's been a good day, don't you think?" He nods and smiles. We sit in the quiet heat.