I'm off to Baghdad next week so today I went to the Iraqi Embassy in Cairo to pick up my visa. The embassy is located on a busy traffic circle with very little security; certainly nothing like the massive blast walls that shield buildings in Iraq.

The Iraqi flag fluttered in the wind and the security guards were sipping tea when I entered the reception area. The metal detector didn't work, so I breezed in without so much as a bag search. I waited in a lobby with five Iraqi men in business suits. I was instantly transported to Baghdad by their thick Iraqi dialects, their groomed beards, their colorful rings, their punctuation of every sentence with the Arabic endearment, ayni, "my eye."

The foreign ministry is controlled by Kurds, a fact reflected by the embassy in Cairo. Several employees spoke Kurdish to one another, while others spoke Arabic with heavy Kurdish accents. A chaichi, or tea server, delivered a dark, sugary cup of Iraqi tea. After a while, a clerk led me to another waiting area outside the consul's office.

I was surrounded by four secretaries, each sifting through blue numbered files and fielding calls from Iraqi refugees. I heard them register four refugees by phone in about half an hour. Some of the callers obviously were regulars, and the secretaries would banter with them and scold them for calling so much.

"Yes, Umm Jassim, I still have your file. I told you we would call when there is any news of resettlement," one veiled secretary said to a persistent refugee on the telephone.

"Yes, yes, your case is still here...No!... My darling, you're at the top of the list."

The secretary let out a cackling laugh.

"OK, if you insist, Umm Jassim, I promise to tell them that you would accept even Darfur..."