The Ambassadors (contd.)
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Katherine goes back to the group at the table and whispers something to one of her girlfriends. In a moment they're saying good-bye to Rutt and Rob.

A couple more hours pass in club land, and we stagger out of The Bourbon and across the Cross toward our hotel. The prostitutes bark their marketing slogans at us and try and coax us into the brothels, but the only place that earns our business is the late-night McDonalds. Saturday night is history.

Day 2 - Sunday; Sydney

"We should at least try something cultural," I say over a breakfast of sloppy eggs and suspicious-looking ham. "I can't go home to the question of 'So, what'd you do down there in Australia?' and have no better answer than 'Well, I averaged about 12 vodka tonics a night and ate McDonalds.' Frankly that's all I do in the States."

We peruse the tourist rack in the hotel lobby and wind up in The Rocks - Sydney's version of the South Street Seaport or Quincy Market - and clamber onto a Higgins craft for a Duck Tour. The hostess begins an afternoon of kazoo quacking and duck singing that clashes noticeably with the throbbing in our heads. All she needs is one venture to our seats in the rear of the boat to exclude us from the interactive portions of her program, and she leaves us to snap photos and otherwise occupy ourselves with low-impact touring for two hours.

When it's over, we invite her to ring up some girlfriends and meet us for an evening out, but she doesn't appear too interested in organizing a welcome wagon for strangers in a strange land - as evidenced by a rushed "I don't think so boys; I think I'm staying in tonight," followed by a quick pivot turn and near sprint down the sidewalk. We're collectively depressed for a minute until Rutt checks his watch: 4 p.m. local time, or roughly noon on Saturday back home - either way a perfectly acceptable hour to start drinking.

We change clothes, then take dinner at the W Hotel at the wharf at Wooloomooloo - a converted shipyard building roughly three football fields long with the requisite hottie W waitresses and neo-lounge atmosphere. We dine al fresco in the warm dusk with one of the best city views I've seen from a ground-floor restaurant. We ask the waitress for recommendations on Sunday night life, and she directs us to Bondi Beach and Icebergs - a name I recognize from an article in some men's magazine I read months earlier. She gets off work at 10 p.m. but balks at an invitation to join us.

We have little time to sulk because it's during this planning process that we realize we have to factor in the logistics of the NFL playoff game taking place later in the States. Some quick calculation leads us to realize that the New England Patriots/Indianapolis Colts game will start at roughly 8-ish. a.m. Rob makes the call to play through.

We settle our dinner tab and grab a cab to Bondi. Rutt 'wins' the front seat and settles in next to a slight Middle Eastern man named Ahmed or Armod. Not one to ride in silence, he opens the conversation amicably.

"Where are you from, sir?" Rutt says.

"I am Pakistani," replies Ahmed/Armod. "I have lived here for four years."

"Islamabad or Karachi?" Rutt asks.

"Islamabad," answers the driver.

"Oh, Islamabad. Great city. I played cricket for Islamabad High School North. Almost made all-city," Rutt deadpans.

The driver does not laugh. "What are you? Americans?"

"Well, technically yes," Rutt persists, "but my father was Special Liaison to the Assistant Ambassador to Pakistan when I was in high school. Great times, man, great times."

"So you are American? So you love George Bush?" Ahmed/Armod queries.

"Why?" Rutt counters. "Is something wrong with George Bush?"

"Is something wrong with George Bush?" Ahmed/Armod's voice is rising steadily. "Yes there is something wrong with George Bush. He is a murderer. He commands murderers."

"Is that so?" Rutt asks. "Who has he murdered? Can you name someone?"

"Well, no. I cannot name specifically, but George Bush, he murders the people of Afghanistan. He murders them every day."

"Well, if freeing them from a terrorist leader and an oppressive regime means he murdered them, then maybe," Rutt volleys back, his voice now rising to match Ahmed/Armod.

"He murdered in Iraq. He murders Muslims. And children. He murdered innocent children."

"Oh, well Saddam Hussein wouldn't have done that. I'm sure people were perfectly happy under Saddam and his leadership. I'm sure George Bush didn't help those people out."

"You can't have thought Saddam Hussein was a good guy," I interject, hoping to play Kofi Annan as the taxi takes a corner aggressively.

"No, Saddam Hussein was bad," the driver concedes, "but George Bush, he is worse. Do you know what they do - the American troops in Afghanistan? Do you know? They rape the Afghani women. Do you know what that means? It means she is no longer Muslim. She cannot go to heaven once she is raped by American.

"Americans have no respect for what is sacred. You only respect what is American. We have greater respect for Allah. We take Allah more serious. If a married man sleeps with a woman - not his wife - he is to be stoned. If I were to sleep with a woman not my wife, I would be stoned. Americans, you do this all the time, you do it as President."

"And you're okay with that?" Rutt asks. "You're okay with having your personal trials punished by law, with being put to death? With no separation of church and state?"

"Yes, I am okay. That is law. That is what Muslims believe. Americans have no place in the Muslim world. Americans should go home."

The cab stops. "That's it; you are here. You can get out now."

We are at the end of a long stretch of beach. Shops line the beachfront road, but we do not see anything resembling the club as our waitress described it.

"Where is Icebergs?" Rob asks. "We want to go to the club Icebergs."

"I don't know. I don't know this club." The driver is visibly flustered.

"Bull sh-" Rutt starts to say. I cut him off: "This is fine. We'll find it from here."

"I don't know that club," Ahmed/Armod reiterates. We're already getting out of the car.

Rutt leans over with the money. "Hey, I have a question: Why aren't you still living in Pakistan?"

We don't wait for a response. At a convenience store we ask the clerk for directions. He points out lights on a hillside at the opposite end of the beach, easily a half-mile away, maybe farther. We debate about the walk over a beer at a beachside bar.

After another we opt to get a cab instead - a point the driver points out as quite American - and Rob pays him off as Rutt and I approach the doorman. There is no line to get in.

"Icebergs?" I ask a man in all black.

"It is."

"Okay, um, three I guess."

"Okay mates, you have your cards?"