The Palestine Hotel

Ahhh, the buzzards, they’re-a-circlin’. Yet with those of us for whom the sky is NOT falling, life goes on as usual – as it does at The Palestine Hotel.

On October 24, 2005, three V-BIEDS (vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices) rolled through the front gate of what was still, arguably, Baghdad’s most prominent skyline example of Western influence. These two hotels, across the street from each other, housed many journalists and foreign dignitaries for decades, continuing to do so even after the war had begun. The first truck blew the gate, the second actually took a wrong turn and blew itself up in front of an Iraqi police station rather than re-navigate the alleys. The third truck was a cement mixer, loaded to the gills with TNT. The driver got caught up on the rubble and had trouble getting loose. That gave the stunned locals more time to react.

Of course, no one knew exactly what this cement mixer was doing. There was no indication that he was a part of the plot, or just another truck trying to negotiate the recent carnage and rubble. Luckily, some enterprising guard didn’t need to see “Islamic Jihad” painted on the door of the truck to recognize something was up. He popped a cap in the hapless driver and saved countless lives. Other than that, all it did was turn the Sheraton and The Palestine into 18-story heaps of rubble, rather than 3-story heaps of rubble. They’re both still standing, but barely. They would not be if the cement mixer had made it into the lobby of the hotel. In the U.S., both buildings would be cordoned off and condemned. But here in Baghdad, they’re still open for business – for anyone who chooses to venture there.

It was getting dark when I arrived. The first thing I noticed about the inside of the hotel was, ironically enough, that it appeared to have been bombed. There were wires, broken wood, cracked marble and exposed beams everywhere. Building materials were heaped in piles on each floor and around the lobby. The lobby and lounge were mostly dead. Chuck was right. There are no nice hotels in Baghdad. I checked in and asked how I might convert my travelers’ checks to cash. The concierge told me of two options in the Red Zone. I would have to wait on that to tomorrow. I went up to my room on the 17th floor (I know, I said it was the 8th floor in my “Off the Grid” post) where I took in the fantastic view of the Baghdad skyline. I finally took my much-needed shower and changed clothes. I had my spam sandwich which I had saved from the Iraqi Airways charter, and the pita bread which Tom & Antoine had left for me at the airport the day before – so I had dinner. It was delicious.

I plugged in my electrical equipment to charge it up, and I ventured out to find a way to log on to the internet. I was skeptical about being able to find roof access – until I went up one floor to the “18th Floor Panoramic Bar”. I exited the elevator and into the darkened hallway. Building supplies and rubble crunched under my feet as I walked. I came to the end of a corridor and felt a cold wind blowing just as I stepped into what must have once been the coolest place to have a beer in all of Baghdad. Now, it was more than panoramic. There was nothing left to obscure the view – not even the windows, because there were no windows. I sidled up to the bar, pushed off some dusty aluminum beams, and arranged my BGAN terminal to point at the sky directly through the big hole in the ceiling. The familiar hum of the “satellite found” indicator started up. I decided to forgo signing on until I had written some more of my recent journeys.

I still had the phone number for Maximus, who spotted me the $70 cab fare (due to a collegiality which I cannot mention in this blog because to do so would compromise his identity). I told him I would buy him a beer while I was still in Baghdad, so I rang him from my hotel room and we made arrangements to meet on the weekend.

After that I went down to the lobby to do what I came here to do: find some people who had lived the real story. I wandered through the lobby and into “The Orient Express Restaurant” which was completely empty except for some bored wait staff. I could write for three days on the character and feel of that restaurant. The atmosphere screamed its Victorian-age namesake, complete with tropical woods, Persian rugs and oriental architecture. I still hope to dine there someday in another, less volatile time. I imagined it once stocked with businessmen, travelers and treasure hunters of all stripes. The coffee bar had several small groups of locals scattered back in the darkened alcoves and behind pillars. I wandered through as inconspicuously as I could. No one even looked up from their conversations. I didn’t see any westerners. Strike one, for now.

I went out to the concierge and had another conversation about the travelers’ checks. He was a very friendly guy. He gave me much information about the recent history of the hotel and the local goings-on. The concierge told me there were only about 25 guests in The Palestine. I later heard from others that the Sheraton was mostly empty except for a Platoon of the 101st Airborne. Initially, when I walked up the t-wall lined sidewalk, I noticed a nest of sandbags high on the side of the Sheraton. The entire compound had a definite military feel. Many of the people who stayed within the compound clearly did so because of the protection provided by the 101st.

I had not been talking long when the concierge gestured to a man who was leaving the coffee bar. “Shadre, come here!” he said. Shadre is a native Iraqi who also lives in the United States. He speaks impeccable English. He was in the hotel to meet a friend who was staying there. Shadre sat down and we made small talk until the conversation moved to politics. He knew a lot. In the space of a one hour conversation, Shadre disabused me of at least a half dozen myths about Iraq perpetuated by the western press – mistakes spread not out of malice, but out of ignorance. He also told me of an Iraqi politician, Mithal Al-Alusi, whose party came in 8th in the recent national elections. “He would love to meet you,” he said. So we exchanged information and agreed to meet during the time I was in Baghdad. “I will only be in Baghdad for less than a week,” I told him. I hoped to get up to Kirkuk or Mosul if I could hook up with a group that had secure transportation. Right now that was looking to be difficult, but either way wasn’t staying in this city more than a week. Mobility was crucial to safety.

Having been in Baghdad for less than two days, I had already learned things, and met people which one could never have gotten in a lifetime of lectures at Georgetown or the Fletcher School. While the trip had its perils, those very dangers seemed to be attendant to the treasure trove of knowledge which hid itself in wartime Baghdad. I returned to my room after the fruitful talk with Shadre.