DYH

The vagaries of the Kabul Airport only heightened my glee at departing. The customs inspector who hit on me (er, can I have my passport back?), the ladies in security who treated my makeup as a free sample kit (er, can I have my perfume back?), and the male security guard who attempted to maul me (yech!) only lent a sense of urgency to exiting Afghanistan. As I sat in the dingy gate lounge, the Russian couple next to me fretted over whether the flight would be cancelled. Their panic was contagious, and I found myself pacing the grey linoleum floor. Thankfully, my plane did fly, and I arrived in Islamabad green but on time, where I was met by J., who whisked me into the sparkling clean domestic terminal for our flight to Lahore.

It was after eight o’clock when we settled into Lahore’s Pearl Continental, a sleek, multi-story western-style hotel with black-suited staff wearing buttons that read, “We Care!” Now you know when service personnel are forced to wear buttons with asinine slogans, you’re going to be in for it. Fortunately for me, J. was to catch the brunt of the aggravation over the following days.

It was late and we were tired, so we decided to eat at the hotel’s Thai restaurant. Five minutes after we'd ordered, the waiter crept back to our table to regretfully inform me the tofu curry I’d requested was unavailable. I glanced at J., and bit back a laugh at his rueful expression. Restaurants in Kabul are strictly DYH. One must preface each menu request with the phrase “Do You Have” because, chances are, the restaurant doesn’t. Pakistan, however, is a much more civilized place than Afghanistan, and the Pearl Continental, with its bellboys in monkey suits and “We Care!” buttons, was the last place I’d expected such a roadblock to Thai-food happiness.

“Would Madam like the chicken curry instead?” the waiter asked.

“Perhaps I should look at the menu.”

“But the chicken curry is very good.”

“No, thank you. I’m a vegetarian. May I see the menu?”

“Then you can have the vegetable curry!”

I ground my teeth. “May I see the menu please?”

Reluctantly, he handed it over, nattering on all the while about the vegetable curry.

“Thanks. I’ll have the noodles with vegetables,” I said, snapping the menu shut and handing it back.

“But the vegetarian curry is very good.”

Even though I quite like vegetable curry, I was now determined to have anything but. “No, thank you. I’d like the noodles.”

“The vegetable curry is just like the tofu curry.”

“Look,” J. broke in. A vein in his temple throbbed. “She ordered the noodles. Can she have the noodles? PLEASE?”

The noodles were awful.