Last night we went to a party, organized by the U.S. Embassy's press attaché, at the home of the chargés d'affaires' (I think this title means he's an interim ambassador). He was not, by the way, recreating 1970s Midwestern suburbia in his rather lovely home.
In the car, on the way back, our driver Ifthikar entertained us with stories of his past clients. The best was that of Bob Smith, a 350-pound oil and gas magnate who had relocated to Islamabad from Texas. You know this glad-hander, and you wish he was not functionally our ambassador: silver-hair; smile that folds his fleshy cheeks over his aviator glasses; Navy blue blazer with a white Polo; khakis belted below the belly with an A&M buckle; $1000-boots a good buddy got him; and most of all that resonant, high-decibel drawl that cuts through the clamor of any cocktail party. So Bob, sitting on his beige sectional recliner sofa with a whiskey in his cup holder, would bellow, "Ifthikar! Ifthikar! Come on in here and sit with me, buddy!" Ifthikar would sit down with him, and Bob would lean in toward him and declare, "Let me tell you something, Ifthikar. You know what? America is the number one country in the world! We are the strongest nation! We. Are. The. Superpower!"
