How it all started

Over coffee, naturally.

A friendly coffee in the State Department's Foggy Bottom cafeteria with an old colleague turned into, "Can I tell my boss that you'd consider going to Kabul?" And then a phone call from the boss turned into, "We could really use you." Though I think that "you" was a euphemism for "someone" or even "anyone: help!"

I've all too often found my jobs, not exactly through networking, but rather through serendipity. I tell people, and it's nearly true, that I joined the Foreign Service because it was raining one Saturday morning in Brooklyn, so I took the Foreign Service exam in the main post office, rather than get wet. It is the absolute truth that I got my first Foreign Service posting, in Ivory Coast, because it was the available French-language assignment, I spoke French, and, having recently finished graduate school, I had little appetite for a year learning, say, Czech or Mongolian. And when I left the Foreign Service, sure I would never return to the State Department, a phone call inviting me to work on cultural exchanges with Iran, a land that had always been mysteriously attractive for me, was all it took to entice me back.

So it was natural that when Kabul came calling, I went willingly, entranced perhaps by the mythology of the Silk Road and the curiosity of a huge Embassy in a war zone. My boss, who had served in Iraq, wondered why I wanted to go; his boss thought it would be a great adventure and learning experience; his boss (there's no shortage of hierarchy where I work) worried about who would do my work. And Fidy said, "Go!"

But the truth is, I was sent on a mission. Not a political or evangelical mission; democratizing the world was far from this commander's orders. My mission was simple: "Bring back an Afghan kite!"