First dispatch

After 24 hours in Iraq, the worst thing is the curfew. The U.S. military has ordered everyone off the streets from 11 p.m. to 4:30 a.m. but, in reality, because of the increasing violence, most people stay off the streets from sunset to sunrise. It cuts a big chunk of time out of your working day.

Our hotel, however, fearful of looters and/or someone wanting to rob its guests, welded what looked like jail bars between the hallway leading to guest rooms and the lobby, which they lock at night.

Dealing with an 11-hour time difference, which means an 11-hour jet lag, I woke up in the middle of the night, Baghdad time. Instead of lying in bed listening to the dogs bark, I took a walk downstairs, not to go outside but to walk around the lobby.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered not only that the iron bars were locked, but that neither the sleepy-eyed clerk nor his burly assistant could get the key to work in the lock.

For 30 minutes they tried, resorting finally to a large hammer that they used to beat on the lock as they turned the key, freeing me to wander the lobby and wonder what would happen if there was a fire.