I came out of my tent cranky, having failed to sleep between the two massive civilian-contractor trolls who had an Olympic snoring face-off on the bunks on either side of me. And I still didn't know when I'd have a seat on a flight for the last leg into Baghdad.Given IOZ's anarchic, Frenchy, and savagely literate ways, I was certain he could work wonders with the possibilities Peters offers so generously and without a trace of self-awareness (which, of course, makes the gifts that much better).
Then it hit me. Proust had his why-bother cookies, but it's the smell of mess-hall grease in the morning that takes me back. As more soldiers and Marines materialized from the transit-camp tents, headed for the funky latrines or lining up early for chow, I was home again, back in the world in which I'd spent most of my adult life.
IOZ exceeds my expectations.
Merci, Monsieur!