This past week I traveled to a unique American village, some call the ‘IZ’ (pronounced “eye-zee”) in the heart of the Middle East. It is inhabited by thousands of men and women from distant countries like Nepal, Uganda, Ukraine, Georgia, Peru, Puerto Rico, and Australia. There are also not a few Americans and some Iraqis.
It’s landscape is marked by palm trees and concrete walls and many, many English signs some of which say things like: “Deadly Force Authorized”, “Clear Guns Here”, “Turn Off Warlock”, “Muzzle All Guns”, and “STOP Here.” 
The most common vehicle is the Chevrolet Suburban, but the Hummer and some larger tank looking vehicles also dominate the road ways. With the amount of antennas sticking out of them, one would think there were no radio towers in the village whatsoever. 
It’s a land of peace, where one can walk down the streets without concern from pushy beggars, hording tourists, or crowded sidewalks. Sometimes it feels entirely deserted, then a happy entourage of cars with special flashing lights parades down the thoroughfares. 
Monuments, huge statues, and museum palaces dot the landscape though they are seemingly hardly noticed by the locals. 
Many of the people enjoy carrying guns and wearing trendy vests, but largely it is a place where one doesn’t feel that strong need to toe the proprietary line. Sunglasses and basic sandy-colored clothing seem to be the trend at this time of year. 
Finding the locals generally requires passing through multiple checkpoints where a small navy blue folder with a golden eagle emblazoned on it seems to draw respect and more importantly a pass to continue into the next neighborhood.
Walking into a restaurant it was not uncommon to see a print of the famous painting, The Last Supper, hung in a prominent location. It would appear the locals have a keen sense of Classical art. 
The lodging is on the Spartan side. We stayed in small aluminum dwellings called trailers that were covered in leafy webbing that considerably cut down on the glaring rays of the sun. A couple visits to the main hotel indicate that we were there during the ‘off season’. 
An interesting local custom I picked up was to place one’s hand at a 45 degree angle with one’s forehead when greeting certain individuals. This custom was not always observed, however, and the timing of when to do this and when to refrain remained a mystery to me.
Pertaining to the local cuisine, we found it delectable. Fine cuts of meat usually cooked over flame, mixed with rice and tasty beans with freshly baked bread was a favorite of mine.
Instead of alarm clocks, we were awakened early each morning by the sound of multiple sharp, staccato instruments from the ‘concert hall’ next door. At first, we thought that there might be a problem in this friendly city but were reassured that people were simply practicing.
Still, I can’t quite give the place full praise, it does have some drawbacks. For example, apparently, there is no speed limit on the helicopters that fly overhead, seeming to try to trim the gracefully tall palm trees. Within seconds they swoop by, which has somewhat an unnerving effect. Surely, these aggies would do a better job if they simply slowed down.
Also, the vehicles that we traveled in, though quite comfortable, often felt squished and enclosed; even the windows were as thick as a good Tom Clancy novel. In such a sunny environment, a convertible seems a better fit for this desert land.
If you’d like to travel outside of the village, you’ll encounter stiff traffic and basically only Arabs. It would seem the village is some kind of international zone ringed by a homogeneous population of millions of Arabic-speaking, turbaned peoples. If you like Arabs, there’s plenty of them literally surrounding the village. If you prefer the diversity of a land with peoples from scores of countries the IZ is the place for you.
