Last night I ate dinner in a small cafe on the corner: I was the only woman amongst a dozen Arab men, including the Iraqi owners, watching the football. Not one of them gave me a second (or even a first) glance. The tall Iraqi teenager serving me kept coming to clear my plates; he picked up my used teabag with his hands and when I protested, flashed me a sweet smile and said, "It's not nice". The owner, an Iraqi Kurd, chatted to me about homelands and hearts being left behind there. "Thank you, brother,"I said as I left with a feeling of happy melancholy and the smell of mint tea and apple sheesha in my hair and clothes.