The Ambassadors (Cont.)
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"Maybe we can stake out a good spot at the sports bar," Rutt says. "It's liable to be crowded full of ex-pats for the game."

In my deluded state, this risk seems quite real, so we finish our food and hurry down the street to the 24-hour sports bar. The doorman is letting no one in. We express our concern about the game.

"American football?" he asks. "Is there even a game today?"

We assure him that there is.

"Let me see if we have it on."

He returns a minute later. "Oh yes, it doesn't start for over two hours. You'll have to come back."

"I thought you went 24 hours," I state. "Why can't we come in and get a seat?"

"We do, but I can't let you in right now. Don't ask questions. You want to come back later, then you come back."

I look at Rutt. He shrugs. We head to the hotel as the sun is rising.

Day 3 - Monday; Sydney

Rob bursts into the room yelling for us to get up. We're missing the game. It's 8:30.

We don't need to dress; we're still in our clothes from a few hours before. We brush our teeth and scurry toward the sports bar. Normal people are hustling to work in their suits and skirts. Australians, for the most part, are well-dressed.

We greet the doorman at the entrance, and he eyes up Rutt and I and smiles. He didn't expect to see us back. Our fears of not getting a seat to see the game are not justified. In fact, no one has even requested that the game be turned on. Most of the TVs are showing weekly highlights of English Premier League soccer. The other patrons include a guy with his face down on a table in the back, and a toothless woman at the bar.

Rutt orders beers, and Rob explains his late arrival at the hotel - a tale involving being the absolute last person to leave The Bourbon, a fight with a hooker on the street, and a fight with a guy selling falafels in a corner storefront. Aussie/American relations remain strong. I mention the 1,000AUD bar tab.

"Look on the bright side," Rutt reminds us. "With the exchange, that's only $800 back home. That's only $266 each."

We sip our beers through the game, all of us anticipating the hangover that's sure to come. I keep looking at my arms because they feel like they're shaking, but they are motionless. Rut brings it out in the open:

"I think we should grab a case of beer for our travels today. We have to leave here right after the game, check out of the hotel, and get to the airport - and we don't have much margin of error. It'll go smoother if we don't run out of beer."

"I would guess Australian transportation officials might have a problem with that," I mention. Rutt looks at me like I have two heads. In his condition he may actually see them.

"I would think you might not want to be such a pussy. What can be the harm? We're packing a few beers for our holiday up north. Your alternative is not going to be very pleasant."

There's no use arguing. The Patriots hold off the Colts, and we have about 75 minutes to be out of the hotel and at Sydney Kingsford-Smith Airport.

At the bottle shop next to the sports bar, we ask the clerk to recommend a good traveling brew. He asks where we're headed, and we tell him Cairns and Port Douglas.

"Queensland," he says with a chuckle. "Well, you want XXXX (four-ex) for certain, mates. This is all they can drink up there - mostly on account that no one there can spell b-e-e-r."

This explanation makes perfect sense to us after 15 hours on the sauce. We buy a case and roll out. We depart the hotel in less than 10 minutes - clothes stashed haphazardly in overstuffed bags. Moments later we have a cab on the way out of town.

I win the front seat. The driver is another Middle Easterner, a cheery fellow who ignores the long gulps I pull from my XXXX as we speed down the expressway. "Where are you from?" he asks me.

"USA," I say, a little leery of even bringing it up.

"Ahh, Americans. I love Americans; love talking with Americans."

Without looking around, I can feel Rutt lean forward with anticipation.

"And where are you from, sir?" he asks.

"Afghanistan," answers our driver. "But Sydney for eight years."

"Oh, Afghanistan," Rutt responds. "Kabul or Kandahar?"

"Kandahar."

"Kandahar. Gorgeous; gorgeous. I'm a Kabul man, myself. Played Cricket for Kabul North."

Our driver laughs. "Kabul North, you say?"

"Yes, Kabul North. What? You don't believe me?"

The cabbie laughs again. "You're funny, you Americans. Love talking with Americans. You like George Bush?"

"Do I like George Bush?" Rutt asks. I cringe. I hear another beer open in the back. I take a big gulp of my own. "I voted for the man. I support the man in his policies. Yes, I guess I like any man who makes difficult decisions to make the world a safer place."

"This world is not a safer place," our cabbie replies. "Trust me. I drive Americans to the airport all the time. Soldiers. They do not think it's safer. George Bush has angered Muslims. You cannot think doing that is safer."

"George Bush has toppled two Muslim tyrants," Rutt counters. "I think the world is safer. Yes."

"Has he toppled tyrants? George Bush is a tyrant. Who has killed more people? Over history, who has killed more people? Saddam or Bush? Yes, it is George Bush has killed more. The U.S. should go. You should not be in Iraq. You do not make Muslims happy by being in Iraq." The cabbie laughs. "I am not fighting with you. I like talking with Americans. I do not not like you. But you are misguided in your politics. I try and correct you."

Rutt laughs. "You? Try and correct us? Who has the best standard of living in the world? Who has the fairest, most efficient economic system in the world? I think we have things worked out just fine. Rob, why aren't you drinking your beer?"

"Leave me alone," Rob answers.

Rutt shakes his head in adjuration and turns back to the cabbie. "You don't live in Afghanistan anymore," he states. "So just how great was it?"

"You are correct. I do not. But that doesn't mean I don't understand the politics. I came here to make money for my family. Maybe someday I will go back. But that doesn't mean I do not know Muslims. George Bush does not know Muslims."

We arrive at the domestic departure terminal for Qantas.

"Thank you for riding with me," The cabbie says with complete sincerity. "I know, maybe you do not like my views, but I like having someone to speak them to. I like talking to Americans. Always fun with Americans."

"Thank you," I say. "No harm taken. Believe it or not, most Americans are open to talking politics." Rutt shoots me a look.

We clamber out of the cab; I'm holding the cardboard case under my arm and my beer in my hand. Rob hoists my duffle bag on my opposite shoulder, and we head to the ticket counter.

The agent is a welcoming chap who says nothing about the XXXX I place on the counter to retrieve my passport. He asks if we want to sit together; we tell him no - we'd rather have aisle seats than company. He laughs. He checks our bags as Rutt and I polish off our open beers and toss the cans noisily in a receptacle near the counter.