Dreaming of insomnia

I like wine. I also like gin. In fact, those who know me will be aware of my fondness for a wide range of alcoholic beverages (and to any parent reading this - all in moderation, in fact, I don't even like it that much, I just do it to be sociable). But in the absence of these fine and delicious libations there is one thing I cannot do without.

Coffee.

Quick question, have you seen me in the morning before I've had my coffee? Yes? That's nothing. Try 3 weeks. Yes, 3 solid weeks without a sup of anything resembling a decently caffeinated cup of joe. Am feeling queasy just remembering it.

For although I was prepared for the dry spell I'd be experiencing while in Iraq, I had no idea that I would be denied access to the glorious black gold. And I'm not exaggerating when I say denied access - coffee is traditionally a man’s drink, to be drunk in the company of other men, while smoking a few cigarettes and talking politics. Women can be found drinking tea to their hearts content, but coffee? Nope, that stuff is too strong for our weak constitutions.

When we arrived, jetlagged and still reeling from the consumerist paradise of Istanbul duty-free, I was offered a drink. Of course, my first instinct is to call out for my old friend, but I was not prepared for what was handed to me. Watery, and bitter yet sweet, the abomination they dared give the name of 'coffee' was in fact a single serving sachet of the sweepings from the Nescafé floor, which included powdered milk and sweetener. Now I'm polite and everything, but there's no way in hell I'm sticking that stuff in my mouth (yeah, yeah, I know, ‘that’s what she said’).

When we reached Baghdad, we went on a bit of a walkabout, which I will describe more in a future post, but one of the highlights of the trip was my dad showing us his favourite coffee house from when he was at university in the city (still standing, still serving caffeine-y goodness).  He told us about how he’d come here with his friends, play backgammon or chess, drink coffee and have a good chat (according to him it was about sport and politics, but I just know it was all about girls), and my brother opened the door to go in.  Now, I was about to follow him, but was swiftly informed “No.  Women don’t go in there”. Seriously? Seriously? I could smell it through the open door, and think I may have drooled a little…

Baghdad Starbucks

So, to summarise.  No coffee at home.  No coffee outside. The fact that you didn’t hear of a one-woman killing spree on the streets of Baghdad on the news back home was a fricking miracle. To this day I have no idea how I made it through.

But the worst is yet to come. As we sat in Najaf airport, awaiting our flight back home, I mentioned to my dad and brother that I would disembowel a puppy for a decent cup of coffee.  To which they replied, “What do you mean? We had lovely coffee at your aunt’s house.”

Eh?

What?!

Turns out those treacherous (ahem) so-and-so’s had left me with the other ladies, snuck up the stairs with my uncle and had been guzzling proper Arabic coffee without even thinking of poor, decaffeinated me, sitting downstairs, dreaming of espresso.

It may be some time before I can bring myself to forgive either of them.  But like a good cup of coffee – I’m not bitter.