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As always, the Stepchildren stay behind and help supervise unloading of the gear. Our 'supervision' includes moving things from here to there, then watching as they get moved back again. This dance goes on for an eternity. Finally the trucks are loaded. At 2:30 we start the convoy that will take us to our makeshift arena.

I climb in the cab of the front truck, and the driver immediately barrages me with conversation. This twenty-two year old soldier has been in Iraq for fourteen months. His daughter, born while he was away, has started learning to walk in his absence. He tells me that now that the CHU's (Crappy Housing Units) have Internet, he video conferences with them daily, which makes being away a little more bearable. He tells me how boring everything is now, and how much better it was when there was combat. He informs me that the lowest guys on the totem pole, like him, are the only ones that really know what's going on. He worries about getting out of the military, and finding a job. He said he tried to find a job as a forklift driver once, but was rejected. "I've driven a fuckin' M1 tank and they don't think I can handle a fuckin' forklift?" He also worries about fitting in to what he calls 'normal society.' He tells me how weapons are being smuggled out of Iraq, and shares his theories about the real reasons behind the war. He says he doesn't like President-elect Obama, "not because he's black, who gives a fuck what color he is? I don't like him because he's going to try and take my guns away from me."

Between my exhaustion and his verbal diarrhea, the ride, the whole night takes on a surreal quality. I happily let him ramble until we arrive at the arena, and, though tired, I am thoroughly entertained throughout the long ride.

At the arena, which is really nothing more than a vacant dirt lot, we're met by another soldier with a pickup truck. It's now well past 3 AM. I'm so tired I feel giddy, almost drunk. It's not bad, except for the swirling feeling in my head, and the faint ringing in my ears. The guy in the uniform motions for me, Abi and Dave to get in the truck. By now, we've lost Marty, JRob and Prof - the three other stooges who make up the rest of the Stepchildren. At this point, high on sleeplessness, you simply do what you're told, in the hopes that a cot is in your immediate future. Wearily, we sit down in the dusty truck.

Our driver takes us to the Joint Visitor Bureau Hotel; fancy rooms inside a fancy palace where the talent are staying. We know from previous years that Redheaded Stepchildren aren't allowed inside. We stay in tents. Rumor has it our luggage is at the JVB, and once we find our luggage, we're assured the nice, warm tent is imminent.

We don't find our luggage. I question the pilot's earlier statement that they aren't Delta Airlines, since Delta manages to lose my luggage with some regularity. We do, however, find Marty, JRob and Prof, who assure us our luggage is waiting for us at the tent. Prof jumps in the truck with us, JRob and Marty disappear again. After talking to his buddies for a while, our driver finally decides to take us to Cyclone City, a mass of tents for 'transients'. One more hurdle - I swear I am not making this up - checking in to our tent, remains. We pull up to a small building with a single light inside.

The heavily mustached Iraqi man behind the desk asks to see our reservations. Reservations? For a tent? In the middle of Baghdad? Oh, of course! I KNEW I forgot to get something from my travel agent! This is too much for us, and we burst into a giggle fit. The guy soon gets sick of us and grumbles we should go to Tent 95.

Now.

After stumbling around in the darkness, we accidentally find Tent 95, and sprawl into our home for the next three days. Of course our luggage is nowhere to be found, but at this point, it doesn't matter. My sleeping bag and stuff are in it, but that's tomorrow's problem. I take the bath towel out of my carry-on bag and wrap up in it. I'm asleep before my head hits the... well, there was no pillow, but if there WAS one, I'd have been asleep before my head hit.

Sometime later, Marty and JRob come in. It's about 4:30 in the morning. They tell us they're heading to the arena to get a jump start on the day. These fucking guys don't sleep. Ever. Dave wakes up and joins them. With a weak half-wave, I pass back out, lack of pillow notwithstanding.

The next morning, my former wingman Abi, unemployed since the little Germany trick and I track down our luggage, which is in Tent 24, of course. After moving our stuff to Tent 95, showering, changing into less dirty clothes and eating, we meet the rest of the Redheads at the vacant lot, which will be transformed into a WWE arena in exactly two days. Apparently, the sun has risen in the time that passed since we laid down.

The day begins with fits and starts. Marty is concerned about a possible generator problem. Everyone else is concerned with other problems. Following a strict military custom, the empty tent we'll transform into a makeshift TV truck needs to be moved before we can fill it with our TV toys. Most of our gear seems to have showed up, though some of it fell five feet from a pallet during unloading. I'm sure the fallen boxes are mine. There's no way to know if anything is damaged or broken yet. All in all, a typical first set day for the Stepchildren.