Weekend

Today is Friday, a weekend in Kabul. Weekends are only one day in Kabul. But Douglas has to work in the morning and evening preparing for a "jirga". A jirga is a conference with the elders of many communities. For this one, they will talk about community development. A thousand or so people are coming in from different parts of Afghanistan to participate. Douglas got me an ID pass for the jirga so I can help out. How I don't know. I am free labour.

So to feel weekend-ish, we went out for dinner last night to a Chinese restaurant. Douglas' colleague, Helge, invited us, perhaps to thank me for editing his document. We drove through an ex-pat neighbourhood where all the houses were behind cement walls with barbed wires. At each doorway, there are at least two guards. The restaurant, The Golden Key, is also behind a thick cement wall. A guard opens a short door to let us through.

The food wasn't bad in this restaurant, though not as good as I'm accustomed to in Toronto. It's the over-use of salt that spoils an otherwise good dish. But I pulled a good one. Helge ordered a bottle of red wine. It was Jacob's Creek, an Australian red. It should have been an okay wine for me. I've determined with my book club of special dietary needs members that Australian wines are the only wines we can drink because they process the wine twice to remove most of the sulphite.

But I reacted to something. I had half a glass of wine over dinner. Then I felt myself flush. I felt myself go pale as Helge and Douglas kept asking if I was okay. I started to heave and had trouble breathing. When I knew I wasn't okay, I asked for the washroom. Douglas helped me get there. But I didn't make it. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor and I threw up. The restaurant staff ran around getting me napkins and finally a blue plastic basin to dump my guck into. Then I cleaned myself up in the washroom and felt better.

So what am I to think now? Jacob's Creek may be one of the few Australian reds that is only processed once and contains high sulphite. Or it was the MSG in the food. Or it's the combination of sulphite and MSG that caused my reaction.

We went home and Helge gave me a special tea he calls "Feel Relaxed" tea. It's all natural. The ingredients are gathered in the Black Forest by women. I quite liked it. It's light, smooth and fruity. His company is promoting this tea in Germany.

This morning, I stayed in the room to rest. Douglas went to the dining hall and ordered breakfast to be sent to me. With my breakfast Helge sent a pot of Feel Relaxed tea!

In the afternoon, Douglas was free. He arranged for a ministry car and driver to take us around. Helge also joined us for the afternoon. We first went to a leather shop and ordered a bag for me. I don't need another purse, but I ordered a big one anyway. It will be my souvenir from Kabul.

We next went to the Babur Gardens for a stroll. Babur is the grandfather of the Moghul who built the Taj Mahal.

Then we went to the Serena Hotel for coffee. The Serena is the poshest hotel in Kabul. They scan the car before they let it into the parking lot, then they get you to empty out your pockets, check your purse, and have you walk through an airport scanner before letting you into the hotel.

The hotel is Western, clean and dust free. I walked in, breathed a sigh of relief and said, I am home. We went to the bar to order coffee and cake. In the pastry display case, there were many beautiful looking cakes and French pastries. That Helge. Steve and James would love him. And he seems so serious all the time. He didn't order just one piece of pastry. He ordered one pastry, plus a whole pear flan!

So I ate my chocolate eclair and had a slice of pear flan. I had a Sprite and coffee. Then Helge said there were other pastries in the case. He went back and ordered a blueberry tart and a mango tart. We split them. That means in one sitting, I ate three pieces of dessert for lunch.

Then we went to see Douglas' apartment. It is quaint, charming, and rustic even though it is sort of new. It is in fact a romantic set up. By that, I mean it is like an artist studio with low doorways, a wood-burning stove for heater, peeling walls, iron gates, and guards outside. If I were a man and an artist, and this is not a Muslim country under military guard, this is the apartment where I would produce love-children.

In the evening, Douglas went back to the jirga and I went home. Now I'm trying to not be sick from this afternoon's pastries.