That's what they call it if you never get off the compound and your view of the country is filtered through the Embassy perspective - you live in the Kabul Bubble.
Last night again we left the bubble to go through the city. One street was lit with garish colored neon lights and all the shop windows were filled with colorful, slinky women's dresses. They looked like they were ready for a slew of high schoolers to descend upon them for prom dresses. Just off Butcher Street there was an endless row of stalls with men grilling whole chickens, grocery stores with stacks of luscious-looking fresh fruit (we don't get a lot of that on the compound). More potholes and unpaved streets, and then finally we got to a restaurant to meet with some Afghan partners. The power fluctuated all evening long and the lights kept flickering. Finally they went out, and something funny happened.
Two of the people there are married - let's call them "Heidi" and "Ed," though don't assume those are their real names. Ed also has a permanent twinkle in his eye that dirty old men everywhere have, though I'm not necessarily saying Ed is a dirty old man, though I'm sure as hell not betting a paycheck that he isn't. They are sitting next to each other at one end of a long table where the dozen of us are. Lights go off, and room is plunged into total darkness. After the "ohs," there is a brief silence, and then Ed's voice: "Heidi, stop that - not at the table."
Lights come back on and everyone chuckles, though Heidi, not so much.
A few minutes later, the power goes off again. This time a male voice from the other end of the table: "Ed, stop that - not at the table." Lights come back on, and a smiling Ed, placid in his seat, says," I bet you didn't realize I could get back here that quick."
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