“The Chinese guy is gonna want to talk to you,” Rob says.
Okay.
“No big deal,” he continues. “Just be polite and keep it vague.”
U.S. Embassy, Zagreb, Croatia.
Rob’s the Naval Attaché. Former F-14 Tomcat pilot.
He’s one part diplomat, one part spook.
I’m not sure which version of him is talking. Probably the spook.
It’s a Fourth of July party, hosted by the U.S. Ambassador.
As with so many of my Navy experiences, I have absolutely no business being there.
My buddy, Ryan, thought it would be a terrific idea.
He’s a Naval Academy classmate and in my reserve unit.
“You’re gonna be in Romania doing that exercise, right?” he asks.
Yes.
“Just come to Croatia when you’re finished,” he says. “It’ll be fun.”
You know, just pop on over.
Typical Ryan.
He’s both fearless and charismatic. Nothing scares him, and everyone loves him.
Including the Croatians, apparently.
Anyway.
Rob, Ryan, and I are standing on the back lawn of the embassy, sipping champagne in our chokers.
Navy Service Dress Whites. It’s the high-collared uniform Ice Man and Slider wore while accepting the Top Gun trophy next to the Miramar O-Club pool.
I look fantastic in chokers, as do most Naval Aviators.
Rob’s giving us the lay of the land, pointing out who’s who in the Croatian diplomatic community.
He eventually peels off to “work.” Whatever that means.
Ryan and I grab another glass of champagne and start working our way through the crowd. It’s our job to drive positive engagement with our international partners.
One glass of bubbly at a time.
Sure enough, the Chinese guy finds us.
“Haven’t seen you guys at one of these things before,” he says in perfect English. “What brings you to Croatia?”
“A short-term training assignment,” I answer. “It’s just good luck that we got to be here for the Fourth.”
“I hear that,” he says. “Well, enjoy your stay.”
And then he walks off to chat up another group.
Seems pretty harmless to me. But will Ryan’s and my names go into some report he files with his superiors in Beijing? Will they start a dossier on us?
I’ve seen too many movies.
Rob finds us after a while. We report our interaction with the Chinese guy. He doesn’t seem too concerned.
“Okay,” he says. “Our work here is done. Let’s get out of here.”
Cool.
I assume we’ll take a cab back to the hotel and change.
“Nope,” says Rob. “We’re going out just like this.”
In chokers?
“Yup. I want to see what happens.”
What happens?
Now, I am not a member of the intelligence community. But every bit of training I’ve ever received on how to conduct oneself in a foreign country has stressed the importance of blending in.
Do not call attention to yourself.
Three dudes in chokers in Zagreb will certainly call attention.
As it should, because we look so damn good.
Still, I think it’s a pretty terrible idea, and tell I Rob so.
Ryan’s indifferent. He’s up for anything.
Ultimately, I lose the argument, and we find ourselves in a pub a few blocks from the embassy.
As expected, heads turn abruptly the moment we walk in.
We make our way to the bar and order drinks.
The bartender is amused. He looks at us like we’re in Halloween costumes.
Some random guy eventually walks up to us and asks in decent English, “What is this?”
He sounds just as skeptical as I am.
“Excuse me?” Rob replies.
“You know,” the guy continues, “what’s with the uniforms?”
Fair question.
“We were at an official event,” Rob says, “and didn’t have time to change.”
The guy stands there for a few more seconds, staring at us.
He doesn’t seem the least bit threatening. Just curious.
Finally, he shrugs and walks off.
We finish our drinks, and I suggest we move on.
Whatever experiment Rob is conducting has presumably run its course.
Rob decides to head home, and Ryan and I go back to the hotel to change. Finally.
“I didn’t like that at all,” I tell Ryan in the cab.
“Whatever,” he replies. “Forget about it.”
So we do. And we never learn what the point of it all was.
The next night, it’s just Ryan and me.
We’d kicked around the embassy and shot the shit with the Army guys most of the day.
Upon returning to the hotel, we’d asked the concierge to recommend a restaurant for dinner.
“Make it nice,” Ryan tells him, “And authentic. We’re going back to the U.S. tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes,” the concierge replies. “I know just the place.”
He calls and makes us a reservation.
“I think you’ll be most pleased,” the concierge says.
When we arrive, Ryan and I are escorted through the restaurant to the courtyard outside. A small number of tables are arranged in an area the size of a basketball court, flanked on all sides by centuries-old-looking stone walls overflowing with chrysanthemums.
A string quartet plays in the corner. The whole place smells like a Victoria’s Secret.
The host guides us to our table near the center of the courtyard. The tables are spaced at exactly the right distance. Cozy, but not crowded.
As we take our seats, the host lights the candle in the middle of our table and hands us the wine list.
The sun is setting. A slight breeze kicks up. The couples at the surrounding tables gaze lovingly at each other.
Ryan orders us a bottle of chardonnay.
“How many times in your Navy experience have you found yourself in some incredible, romantic place, not with your wife, but with some other dude?” he asks.
Plenty, I tell him, appreciating the observation.
“Yup,” he says, “just a couple of dudes out having a nice, romantic dinner. Nothing wrong with that, right?”
Nope, I respond.
“Well,” he continues, “for whatever it’s worth, you make a great date.”
Thanks, man.
So do you.
“And by the way, what the hell was Rob thinking last night?” Ryan asks. “That was totally awkward.”
Agreed.
As awkward as two dudes sitting in a courtyard having a romantic dinner?
“Maybe,” he says. “But, hey! How about Zagreb? Glad you came, right?”
Sure.
I guess.
If you say so.