My sailor was invited to lunch at the Canadian Embassy in Kabul last week.
He looked forward to getting away from the camp for an afternoon. I had mixed feelings. As always, I worry when there’s any alteration to his routine and off-base travel is a change that makes me especially anxious, but I wanted to hear all the details.
I’ve never visited an embassy for lunch or even just to say hi to a diplomat, but I’ve seen enough James Bond movies to have a good idea of what an embassy in a European city is like. The decor is formal, the people are all dressed like they work in a high-end department store and the food is fancy.
But an embassy in Afghanistan? There’s still kind of a war going on there. Surely corners have been cut and normal embassy conventions are not followed as strictly as in more stable areas. (By normal embassy conventions, I mean the ones I imagine.) I couldn’t wait to hear the nitty gritty when we Facebooked.
“They had bacon.”
“They had bacon?” I said. “You had lunch at an embassy, and that’s all you’ve got for me?”
“They haven’t served bacon at the camp since Ramadan, but they had it at the embassy.”
Like that explains it.
“It was good bacon.”
We’re so in tune that we often get a busy signal when we call each other because we’re both phoning at the exact same time.
We have near identical views on politics, financial planning and child-rearing, yet we’re so far apart in our bacon appreciation levels it’s scary.