New York to Baghdad: A Dangerous Commute

I still call my apartment in New York City “home.” Wherever I am, in whatever war-torn place I am working, I can conjure up the encapsulated peace of my quiet beige bedroom on the 16th floor, with its view of downtown Manhattan, the vista of its night-time sparkle. Although I only touch base there between my years’ long assignments whether in Iraq, Afghanistan or Turkey, my apartment seems above the battle; it waits for me. I know my New York City clothes and my best shoes, the nice designer heels I never wear, are tucked away there, along with my most precious family photos and letters. The special dish set my mother bought me waits, along with the other mementos I’ve accumulated from my travels.