Safwan, Iraq

IT IS ESSENTIAL, during times of war, to be in good company. And to that end, fellowship prospects improved markedly last week around the Kuwait City Hilton–known to hotel warriors as central command. After 36 sleepless hours, I had just stolen three or four when my phone rang. “Hello Matt,” said the voice on the other end. “It’s Christopher Hitchens. I’m here. Did I wake you?” Yes you did, I told him, though I wasn’t about to turn down a social call from one of our finest magazine scribblers and seekers of truth. “Good,” he said. “I’ll give you five minutes to put your teeth in, then I’ll be right over.” You can tell how at ease a man is in the world from the scarcity of possessions he lugs around with him. When I came here, it was with large backpacks and overstuffed duffels, extraneous tote bags, pouches, and carry-ons. But Hitchens showed up at my door with nothing more than a firm handshake and a half-smoked pack of Rothman’s. As he stood there, rumpled and slightly jetlagged in blue jeans and a black leather jacket, he looked sort of like the Fonz–if the Fonz had been a British former socialist who could pinch large swaths of Auden from memory.

We plopped down in the living room, and I asked him why he hadn’t brought his gas mask, chem suit, and Kevlar. “I wore Kevlar in the Balkans once,” he said, “but it made me feel like a counterfeit, so I ditched it.” Despite this cavalier disregard for safety, I was so grateful for the company that I offered him a Welcome-To-Kuwait shot of “Listerine” (as it is known by Kuwaiti customs officials). “I don’t usually start this early,” said Hitchens with feigned reluctance, “but holding yourself to a drinking schedule is always the first sign of alcoholism.”