Last night was Karaoke night at the gay motorcycle bar – the purple motorcycle being gay not the bar. It’s the only place to hang out after the fun police shut down official bar night months ago in an overreaction to a couple incidents. Now, most events are officially private even if they tend to have open invites. Last week it was a toga party in honor of Betsy’s transfer to Athens (yeah, we know the toga is Roman but who cares).
Back to the story: I arrive with some colleagues at about 9 after we finish working. The singing is damaging my hearing and I’m looking for a beer, but then I’m offered something else. “Have a vanilla vodka and orange Fanta,” they say. “It tastes just like a Creamsicle.”
I’d forgotten about Creamsicles, so I had to try it. And it did in fact taste just like a Creamsicle, which I now remember I never liked. Then a rocket exploded in the distance (we think near ISAF or Camp Eggers) and the duck and cover alarm went off for the next three hours, pretty much killing the party. The singing was terrible, but launching a rocket attack to stop the INL section's rendition of Barry Manilow's "Mandy" was a bit much.
Still, it made for an interesting last night in Kabul. As if to make up for my lack of sleep, my Emirates flight from Dubai was a 777 with only 27 passengers. Everyone had either a first or business class seat, or a whole 4-seat center row in coach to sleep on.
