This is part of a continuing series about the life of an embedded reporter in Iraq.

BAGHDAD, IRAQ — Chivalry and black-framed glasses may fly in New York City, but it’s a different game in Baghdad.

Two female reporters from the Los Angeles Times had graciously agreed to give me a lift from the International Zone to my hotel. (As the London Telegraph’s Oliver Poole told me back at CPIC, “It’s a close knit group in Baghdad, and everyone there looks out for each other — especially people who are new to the country.”)

As we headed to the car, I insisted that one of the reporters sit in the front seat. I thought it only polite — after all, they were the ones doing me a favor. It was only when I was told, “This is the Middle East, women sit in the back. Men sit in the front, ” that I meekly shut up and got in the car. My next lesson on Iraq came a few minutes later, when I was told to take my glasses off before we crossed the bridge into Baghdad proper — so I wouldn’t stand out as much.

Within a few minutes we had cleared the speed bumps and checkpoints on the 14 July Bridge and were out of the International Zone. It would be presumptuous of me to try characterize all of Baghdad from the handful of blocks I traveled, but the rows of squat, brown buildings that lined the route had obviously been starved of care for quite some time.

We turned onto a side street guarded by Kalashnikov-toting Iraqi guards, tire spikes and a couple concrete barriers, and a block or so later, pulled up in front of...

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