Returning to Bahrain. The street they call the American Alley, near the US Naval Base, a place of interest to the Islamic Republic of Iran, just a short way across the Persian Gulf. Spies from a hundred countries try to capture overheard conversations. Guards at the Base monitor the tall buildings nearby for snipers. Sailors on leave patrol the Alley at night, looking for diversions or a touch of home. The Alley doesn’t disappoint; there is a McDonald’s–the Burger King is gone, as is the Chili’s; a Starbucks–the iHop didn’t make it either—and a KFC. And a Dunkin’ Donuts.
I walked into the Dunkin’ Donuts and asked for “coffee, cream and sugar.”
“You want whipped cream on your coffee?” Samira asked me. Samira was from Uganda.
I tried to explain. Dunkin’ Donuts is an American franchise. Surely a sailor or two had wandered in and made this pedestrian request before. But no. I had requested exotica.
Whipped cream would not do. I tried to explain Half and Half but Samira had never heard of it. She called her manager, a Filipina woman who had never heard of it either.
“You mean milk? You want a macciato?”
Samira suggested a flat white, a beverage unheard of in the USA. I surrendered.
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