The Pashmerga, the Kurdish police and security officers, were everywhere. At intersections. At fountains. At soccer games. There were never any less than four guards at the gates of our compound, which includes ten-foot high walls. There were always two or three in front of the school, where our couchsurfing host taught English. During the drive to Rania with two University students, we encountered four checkpoints, two which required a look at our passport.

But our first real run-in with the police happened while taking photos there last week. We were caught off guard by two Kalishnakov-swinging camoflauged men who were not especially friendly. One minute there were two of them, the next more than 10. Our host’s face lacked reassurance or comfort.

So we followed the soldiers through mountain-surrounded Rania, a town known for its clever strategies and participation in the 1991 Northern Uprising in Iraq. We walked casually past the cement walls which contain brown courtyards, marble pillars and squat toilets. Past the women in their headscarves and ground-length velor housecoats, past the children in their fluorescent, synthetic clothing and rubber sandals. Past bench after medieval cart of men in their olive-drab traditional Kurdish garb, a cross between a Carhart worksuit, and a brown cummerbund-wrapped tuxedo, minus the bowtie. Past the Armani belt buckles and pin-striped suits. Past a Jack Daniels-bragging liquor store, sometimes a sign of a Christian neighborhood.

At the police station, four gun-wielding guards chaotically search us for a mobile phone. It was hard for them to believe we didn’t have one. Soon, we were herded toward a room and told to sit down. In the next sixty seconds, at least 15 people came into the room. We couldn’t tell if we were the excitement of the day or if they considered us a serious threat. Soon, it was another room. Then another. I wanted to hold onto Michael, but I couldn’t. Not here. Still, no one smiled. Still, our host was expressionless. I was calm, but fearful. I tried to look simultaneously scared, friendly and apologetic, my passport in my hands, ready to submit. Finally, a man behind a big desk in a heated office examined Michael’s passport. He waves mine away. I am just a woman, after all.

No problem. We can go. We can take all the pictures we want. They just had to make sure we weren’t Turkish spies gathering information about the PKK.

Cool.

Not Baghdad, Iraq. Northern Iraq. Kurdish Iraq. Kurdistan, if you will. And we found plenty of research, testimonials and even an English-teaching couchsurfer by the name of Josh Overcast before we made our decision to be tourist pioneers. Oh the places we’re willing to go.

On our second night in Iraq, we danced to Madonna’s Vogue at a party thrown by an English teacher. There was a lot of wine, Betty Crocker brownies and bugles to eat as everyone told their stories. Brits, Australians, Canadians and Americans, a Turk, and even a few Kurdish showed up. Some had studied Middle Eastern culture and history for years. Others were just adding Iraq to the list of past teaching assignments in Korea, Taiwan, Saudi Arabia and Croatia. Most were on a two-year contract and found strange comfort in the gossipy, but gurgling insta-family which expat communities so often provide. It didn’t matter that they never would have been friends at home. Whatever differences, no matter how obvious, were overshadowed by one thing in common: they had all freely chosen to come to Iraq and they were all tired of being here.

Our first day out in Kurdistan felt a little like Africa. Out of the secure, suburban but heavily-guarded ghost-town of a complex and into the real town center. Unlike Damascas or Amman, the streets were wider, catering to fast cars. But Erbil was much more rundown with a thick layer of grime and a general disinterest in itself. A 10,000-year old citadel still inhabited by one family sat like a dusty, lazy lion who had long since fallen into a deep sleep in the center of his kingdom. In the souk, blenders with pomegranate purple and guava garnet inside sat on white counters ready to pour. Most fast food “restaurants” didn’t have napkins or bathrooms, just a hanging cow carcass, a slippery floor of fallen food and a sink for washing your hands. Roads with deep grooves, like a permanently fired, vertical pieces of pottery led the way. As in every country we’d visited, the black market was ever-present with rechargeable, (but useless as we discovered) Sony batteries, mobile phones and flash drives. But here, despite a public space full of striped umbrellas, metal benches and fountains, infrastructure was a bit weaker. Electricity was sparse, international ATMs were non-existent and gas stations were no more than a man with a pyramid of petroleum-filled plastic gallon containers at his side.

The faces of confusion and awe were what reminded us of Madagascar. It was apparent that even the IT professionals, teachers and contractors living here didn’t often venture into the souk because the Kurds just didn’t know what to do with us. They stared, suspicious and shy, but not threatening. One man in traditional garb took our photo twice as we drank tea at his outdoor stools and learned a little Kurdish.

But even once we knew the basics, getting a price was never easy. Whether you wanted a falafel-stuffed pita, a haircut or a taxi ride, your first inquiry was waved away as if to say: “well discuss it later”. Then, when it was time to ante up, they hushed up, waiting for you to over or under-pay them.

We ventured into an tangerine-trimmed barber shop where the men all wore avocado-colored chemises. Michael was saddled up within seconds. The cut took less than 10 minutes and before long I was having my eyebrows and mustache (I didn’t even know I had one) tweezed through the string-squeezing method. As I gasped for air and tears slipped out of my eyes, the entire shop laughed and snickered at my pain and Michael told me to be tough. My eyebrows look fabulous but it was sufficiently traumatic.

Again and again, we hear about the safety of Erbil. Stuff doesn’t happen here. The only violence occurs in the form of illegal honor killings, Kurdistan was yet another ethnic group without a homeland—over 30 million people worldwide (20% of the population in Turkey, 15-20% in Iraq) Between the near-decade-long Iraq-Iran war in the 80s and the devastating 1988 incident in Haljaba when Saddam killed off five thousand Kurds with a single drop of mustard gas, the Kurds are not only without a homeland but were often without protection from Iraq’s ruler. But when the US established the no-fly zone in 1991 following the Gulf War and the Oil-For-Food Program distribution was revamped by the UN in 1996, Kurdish life has been steadily progressing forward. Now their flag, a 21-ray sun, symbolizing their Nawrooz holiday on the 21st of March and the white (peace) red (blood) and green (nature) stripes is flown freely. There are still honor killings, where women aged 10 and up are executed by a male relative for having inappropriate relations with the opposite sex. Their crimes range from having a strange boy’s mobile number to being caught in a clandestine meeting with him. Honor Killings are illegal, but police don’t always intervene or prosecute.

Our timing wasn’t perfect, however. AlthoughTurkish-PKK conflict had been relatively quiet for months, the day we arrived, Turkish troops began a fresh incursion into Northern Iraq in an effort to undermine the PKK, “a militant Kurdish organization with the objective to create an independent Kurdish state” to some, and a “terrorist organization” to others. What was worse, the incursion was prompted by a “green light” from the United States.

When we were in Turkey back in November, the U.S., a long-time ally, wasn’t doing enough to help Turkey fight the PKK, whose goal, if achieved, would create a separate Kurdish state. But now that we were in Kurdistan, a homeland-less group which the U.S. has supported and protected for nearly two decades, the U.S. government had decided to put their foot down in defense of Turkey. In other words, we were in the wrong country. Again.

Yet. It didn’t seem to matter. Separation of individual and government, as usual, was clear. Kurdish students welcomed us at the University. We attended a political science class and gave talks to classes about Peace Corps and Bulgaria. We checked books out of the library, used the computer lab and attended a protest against Turkish forces organized by the Student Union.

Just like Syria and Lebanon, Iraq had skidded from dangerous and exotic to reasonably safe a so-not-a-big-deal in a matter of days. The difference was that this was I-R-A-Q. The difference was that Lonely Planet had not only called it “the most dangerous place on earth” in it’s 2006 edition., but had printed this message under the Solo Travelers subheading:

Since we’ve let the United States, two years and six months ago to this very day, I realize that there’s three of us on this trip. Me, Michael and Sophia.

Sophia, as many know thanks to popular culture, stems from the Greek word for wisdom. Its root rests between suffixes and prefixes throughout the English language. Sophisticated means full of a certain kind of wisdom. Philosophy means in love and pursuit of wisdom. Sophomore means both wise and foolish.

Around five years ago, Michael was sitting in the comfy green chair of our past life, reading Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time when he told me that Sophia was a biblical figure, said to be the personification of the feminine in God.

This was long before our decision to join the Peace Corps. But during our service, Sofia turned out to be the namesake of a city we called home for two years. In Beirut, Sophie is the generous, eccentric founder of Inma Foundation, for whom we built a website—the mother of Inma’s giving spirit. In Carnivale, a downloaded HBO series we’ve watched in many a dingy, freezing Arabian hotel room and a story which mirrors the nomadic lifestyle we’ve adopted, Sophie is the strong, fortune-telling character played by Clea Duvall. Recently, but before I realized this strange Sophia-ness, I purchased the book Sophie’s World, a novel of philosophy by Jostein Gaarder.

As you can see, we never get too far across a new border before her skirts find a way to twirl into our life.

So when our first niece, Sophia Louise, was born January 22nd, 2008 to Michael’s sister Meagan and her husband Ryan, we knew she was a gift from the universe . We will forever remember how we were sprawled across the world in search of the very wisdom her name embodies as she was born. And although we’re not there to hold her little pink hand at the moment, we promise to be the best Aunt and Uncle ever upon return. We love you, Sophia.

Sometimes I wonder how I end up where I do.

This was my thought as I walked atop the shoulders of an icy, starry night on a road between Syria and Lebanon, humming Islands in the Stream (it was playing at the duty free shop) and searching my coat pockets for toilet paper.

Our morning departing Beirut had been a hellish nightmare of false starts, perfume peddlers, taxi scams, bus ticket tricks and below-the-highway bust-ups. We’d finally managed to find a five dollar mini-bus, which along with eight other smoking, shifty-eyed males, took us up over the mountain pass and even stopped for a currency exchange. Six weeks ago, on our way in, we’d exchanged cash in panic through a barbed wire fence at the Lebanese entrance while we prayed that our bus didn’t leave without us. It sucked. But this time, despite the confusing conversion of Lebanese Pounds, Syrian Pounds and American Dollars (which were also used in Beirut) we fared better.

But getting our cash was only the first step. At the Syrian entry point, where not one officer spoke English, we discovered via a kind bilingual bystander that it would take five or six hours to issue a visa since they’d have to contact Damascus and wait for approval.

No problem. We’d been warned and were well-prepared with snacks and our books: Eastward to Tartary and Beirut to Jerusalem. Plus, there was a Dunkin Donuts nearby. Swell. All day long we watched hundreds of border-crossers come and go and the moustachioed pea-green-uniformed officers change shifts. But eight hours later, we were still hugging the radiator in our little bucket seats, going a little stircrazy. That’s when paranoia began to set in. We had no idea what was going on back there. Had our request been sent? Were they checking on it? Were visas issued after business hours? Shit, what had I written in my blog about Asad? Bloggers had been recently arrested in Egypt. What was the problem? Damn it America! Look at those Japanese tourists–in and out in five minutes!

Finally, just before 10:00 they motioned us over.

The visas would be issued.

Whew. But now we had to find a ride to Damascus. It was just a forty minute drive, but dark and cold by now, hitchhiking did not sound good. About that time, we heard American voices. Texas accents.

Fifteen minutes later we were sitting comfortably in the front seat of our own knight on a white horse. Except this hero had a 1974, velour interior dirt-dusted Caprice Classic–so big and white it seemed like it would fly. It’s driver, Abu Anas, a friend of the family spoke little English, but lucky for us, Abeer the pharmaceutical rep, Kinan the real estate guru and Zak the attorney spoke good Arabic. Somehow, it was arranged that we would stay with Abu tonight at his home and tomorrow morning he would drive us to Amman, Jordan for a small fee.

So we dropped off the Texans, then headed far out of the center to the cinder block shantytown of his suburban home. It was rockpiles and late-night fruit stands, dark alleys, corrugated tin and cement compounds. But his smile was as wide as the Caprice Classic as he called his wife and told her the good news. Though nearly midnight, he was bringing home guests. American guests. So would she plug in the space heater and put on the tea?

That night we slept in our clothes on a firm bed under three blankets. Harsh security lights courtyard, the outdoor space between the living spaces of his “house”, flooded our room, setting aglow the literally hundreds of garish ceramics displayed in our bedroom, a strange status of wealth in these Syrian communities. The next morning, after a quick teethbrush at the outside faucet, we sat around the kitchen diesel stove while Koran verses san across the television. Did we want tea? Well of course we did. As Abu’s headscarfed wife flowered with facial expressions and three of their nine little boys watched us with delight, we knew we were at a red-level alert for another kidnapping. This would be a close one.

But this time was different. This family was at ease with each other and that made us at ease with them.The energy was buoyant and we relaxed into the comfort of confusion we had come to know so well. I practiced my Arabic numbers. They practiced their English greetings. It was shy smiles and photos all around. Soon, Abu Anas made a move to go and we followed the nonverbals. Onto the white horse we climbed, one leg at a time and he drove us to. . . .not Jordan, but the bus station, where he arranged our seat with a bus-driver buddy of his. A miscommunication. Not too shocking. But it didn’t matter. A free bed, a culture-rich evening and a personal delivery to the bus’ two front positions, the best seats in the house. Abu refused to accept any money.

The Jordanian border, with King Abdullah and Queen Rania smiling at us with delight as if we’d just arrived at their private dinner party, was full of shiny marble, modern mosaics and velvet ropes which swung with order.

Amman here we come.

8:00 Consider getting up, but switch positions and ignore the springs digging into my hipbone. Notice wall-heater is still functioning, which means electricity is on. Which means it could very well go off at 9:00. Good thing I juiced the oranges last night.

8:35: Get dressed and try to put water on for tea. Realize the faucet is only a trickle, which means in a bout five minutes, there will be no water at all. Have a tough time lighting the burner, so kitchen smells of sulfur. Use water from the cooler for eggs and tea.

8:40: Hear Michael messing with the toilet, realizing there is no water. He comes into the kitchen with quite a look. I nod in acknowledgment. Last time this happened, the Palestinian plumbing student at Inma center, who had fixed the water twice before, said that he could help us today, but didn’t want to. He wanted to teach us a lesson about wasting water. This was translated to us from Arabic by American volunteers who were rather aghast at his audacity. But despite the fact that we were at that time showering every few days, we didn’t say much. Since he didn’t fix our water, we were instructed to move across the hall. To the apartment three times as big.

So now, we REALLY didn’t want to come to this guy about the water. I decided to think about it later.

8:50: Retrieve Middle East book from living room to see when we can catch a bus to Jordan, our next destination. Michael is heating water to shave. We eat hard boiled eggs with soy and hot sauce and drink fresh orange juice on the terrace. Sometimes we read Economist articles to each other. Not today.

9:25: We say hello to Adel, the mechanic and the Syrian guy, Faisal, who serves coffee in the empty parking lot, then get a service taxi to Bourj el Barajne, the Palestinian Refugee Camp. A service taxi is basically a carpool. Most trips are $1/person. When we tell him our destination from the roadside, he grunts an affirmative and we get in. I think service taxis are the best way to see Beirut.You never know how long the ride could be, which route the driver will take, who might squeeze into the backseat with you. One morning, as I sat alone in the back of an unusually filthy car, my driver stopped, flashed five fingers and big smile my way, then got out and jacked the car up and down multiple times over a twenty-five minute period. During the rest of my ride, the guttural sounds coming from the car were matched only by the driver’s spit-spewing hack. On another day, during a 45-minute ride, the driver and three passengers smoked cigarettes, stopped for coffee-to-go and chatted as if they were all old friends, while I huddled reading in the corner, wondering if I’d accidentally crashed their road trip. But everyone is always nice. Helpful. Friendly. And you never have to worry about the driver taking the long way around. Because you KNOW he’s taking the long way around.

9:45: We see the KFC, our landmark and ask to get out amidst piles of dirt and two by fours, then cross the road, walk through the car wash and up four flights to the Inma Office. Hoda is making sandwiches (pitas rolled up with cheese) in the kitchen. Everyone is huddled in one room, sharing a joke. Apparently, Fadi’s father died last night. Which of course, is not funny at all. But Fadi had been asked to pick up the coffin and he was feeling a bit spooked about the task, which was embarrassing. And somehow, this became hilarious.

10:07: Suher, a Palestinian employee and Jamie, an American employee who came with her church last fall and will stay for a few years while her husband gets his masters at American University of Beirut, are going into the camp to sign up new kids for the pre-school. We tag along. We’ve seen the strange mix of colorful murals, unprotected cables and abandoned plastic dolls of this ghetto before, but our skin still pops as we walk.

I know the way, but we cannot walk too far ahead. Foreigners are not allowed unaccompanied through the camp. We reach the pre-school’s office. Ramadan greeting cards, rose-colored walls, Arabic scripture plaques and silk flowers attempt to decorate the cold, dark and drafty room. We sit in plastic deck chairs—the folding chair of the developing country. High-pitched child screams echo nearby. Jamie and Suher complete child profiles with meek mothers.

Eventually, we take a tour through the pre-school, which is more like a high-ceilinged courtyard with tiny rooms for teaching. We are given sweet steaming tea in brown mugs as we snap pictures of toddlers in blue-checked uniforms upon the blurry mirror of the steel slide.

Primary-colored murals are everywhere. Along the top surface of the wall separating the kitchen from the hallway are ever-shining shards of sharp glass, permanently glued in place. This is to keep away the thieves, since the kitchen has no door.

12:30: I have been asked by Louise, a British woman living in Beirut and working for Inma, to help out with the adult English class in the Vocational Training Center in the camp. They’re working on informal and formal greetings and their levels vary from beginner to intermediate, but they’re all headscarfed women and all inclined to giggle. They are giddily happy about learning English. This is pretty nice.

When I return to the center, Suzanne tells me Michael went to the Fadi’s father’s funeral.

2:00: I take a service taxi back to the Hamra area, look for the bookstore where I found $8 paperbacks a few weeks ago and then settle in at our restaurant with free internet and delicious tuna wraps. I order by leaning over the balcony from the second floor.

6:30: Michael arrives at the restaurant after a day of mourning.