Here vs. There

Saturday morning:
Here
Around 4:30 AM with a call to prayer from the Mosque outside my window. A slow mournful song. To remind my Muslim neighbors that they have little time to do their abolitions (ritual cleansings) and prayers before sunrise. Since this is my day off (we have Friday and Saturday off), I roll over in bed with a sigh, knowing I don't have to get up for a while. I fall back to sleep for some crazy dreams about polar bears and ice-skating. I believe this is a result of Melissa and my current pastime of turning up the air-conditoining to full blast, wrapping up in blankets and watching Christmas DVDs. We miss the seasonal change at home.

There
Around 4:30 AM I am asleep in my cottage loft. Satchmo snuggled down under the comforter, not the sheets, dozing away, or not.

Here
Around 8:00 AM I throw on my jeans, short sleeve shirt, flip-flops and head out for coffee and Manakeesh. I leave the air-conditioned coolness of the lobby, as the Chinese doorman says "Good morning Ma'am Sir". In the lobby is our new company driver, Hussein, from Lebanon. He started this week. Does not speak much English. When I saw him yesterday morning as he arrived at the office to drive a visiting co-worker to see a desert Oasis, I told him he did not need to come in today. That he could come on Sunday morning to the office for work. Apparently he did not understand and I feel badly that he has taken the 1.5 hour bus ride into the City to work on a day he doesn't have to. (His salary is standard. He is on call 24/7 so not working today will not cost him income. But it will cost him three hours on his day off to commute from and to the lower rent area where the laborers tend to live.) I offer to drive him home. He looks shocked and embarrassed and waves me away. I will have Rasha explain to him in the morning that he doesn't typically work weekends unless we have special needs.

There
Around 8 AM I lie in bed and look out the window at the early morning sun breaking over the water of Lake Sammamish. This time of year I imagine there are no leaves on the trees and the view is beautiful. I would head down my spiral stair to the kitchen where I would make my own Latte.

Here
A little after 8:00 AM I walk out my building, having sent off the driver, and aim towards Costa Coffee. The temperature at this time is in the low nineties and it feels fine. Feels doable given that it was well over 110-degrees this time of day when I first arrived. Though it is warm I cannot see clouds in the sky. Cloud scouting is rare due to the layer of fog usually present. We are right at the ocean. In the Middle East. Blue sky and clouds are a rare treat. The humidity rarely gets below 80-percent. My sunglasses fog up usually as I step outside. But I notice this morning that I am no longer surprised by the temperature change leaving the building. I guess this is what you call getting acclimated.

The garbage truck is wedging between the cars parked down the middle of the street, trying to empty the large dumpsters on the corner. The stench of the garbage that has been simmering in the Middle Eastern heat is part of City living. In the City the nose is constantly assaulted by clouds of aroma: leaking sewer lines; "ripe" laborers as they pass by; incense wafting out of small dress shops; curries bubbling on burners of tiny restaurants; strongly perfumed women and men (there is some popular men's perfume that has a very chemical scent which is close to moth balls with ammonia), and; garbage dumpsters. I dodge dripping air conditioner units, pass by feral kittens stretched out on the tops of cars, and gingerly step around or over places in the "sidewalks" where the bricks have been upended leaving a sandy hole filed in with cigarette butts and rocks. While the sidewalks are in horrible disrepair there really isn't much garbage as the city has employed many laborers to patrol everywhere and pick up garbage. But they have their work cut out for them with the cigarette butts and candy wrappers as people just toss down those types of things. They know they will be picked up after.

I arrive at Costa's coffee, a modern coffee shop and Starbuck's biggest rival here. Though the shop is modern and clean, smoking is allowed inside. At this time in the morning about eight tables are filled, all with men, half in dish-dash, speaking Arabic. The others with single westerners on laptops. All of them are smoking. I order coffee from the nice young Philipino with whom I'm familiar. I tell her I want the largest cup for a skinny vanilla latte. She says they have no largest cup (they have been out for a few weeks now). The cost is 24 dirhams (about $6.50 US). This is one of the few food/beverage offerings that is more expensive than in the US. I leave the Costa shop with my procured latte in hand for the next part of my stroll. I love the Costa coffee cups by the way. They are a textured cardboard with wavy indentations that make it easy to hold. I like the cups and the taste of the coffee better than Starbucks. The only advantage to Starbucks is that there is no smoking inside. I digress....back to stepping outside with my latte in hand...

I walk outside for the three block stroll to the Lebanese bakery on the opposite side of my office/apartment building. I go past the fire station, around the corner, past our car that is parked along the curb. It was a good night for parking yesterday I guess. The car is on the curb, not far from the Mosque. Parking in this neighborhood, like most neighborhoods in Abu Dhabi is horrible. Once the curb spots are full a new line of parking forms down the middle of the streets leaving barely enough room for cars to squeeze by on either side. Aisle parked cars fold in their mirrors so that the passing traffic can clear them. At all corners and right up to the driveways cars wedge in. There is no "clear zone" from the intersections and drives. If there is any extra radius at the corners you will see cars doubled up. The driver of the exterior car leaves his mobile number on the dashboard so that the inside car can call the driver of the exterior car if he needs to get out. Cars are parked up on sidewalks, where there are sidewalks. Often, early in the morning or late at night you will hear drivers pounding and pounding on their horns. That is for wedged in drivers to try to get attention of the "wedgees" to move their cars if a mobile number hasn't been left or if someone isn't answering the call.

....back to my walk. I pass our car and cross in front of the Mosque. Though this is not an official prayer time (there are five daily) there is an assortment of about a dozen pairs of sandals on the Mosque stairs. Always there are sandals on the steps. There are apparently always some people in the Mosque praying. I round the corner to cross the garbage truck again who has made it this far along in the morning rounds. The stroll this time of the morning is nice as there is very little traffic out and, as I mentioned, the temperature is tolerable.

I arrive at the Lebanese bakery. Hussein, our driver, is in front visiting with someone. I am glad to see he at least has gotten some breakfast from a bakery of his country of origin and has found someone he knows to talk to. We nod at each other and I enter in. I take my place in line behind a father holding his daughter and a woman with head covering on. The men behind the counter are so friendly and smile as I say "Salam Allecoom" (Good morning). I practice my Arabic "Min Fadlak. Bidee itned manakeesh cheese, olive and vegetable" (please. I want two flatbreads with cheese olive and vegetables....obviously I haven't learned cheese olives and vegetables yet). They would understand me in English, no problem. But they like that I am practicing my Arabic. I wait as I see them take the bread that has just freshly come out of the big open oven, put cheese and some olives on it and slide it back into the oven. In just a few moments they pull it out of the oven and place cucumbers, tomatoes and fresh basil onto the warm treat. They are placed onto paper and folded in half. Securely wrapped and placed into a paper bag that is put then into a plastic bag with handles. I hand them a 20 dirham note. He asks if I have a 1 dirham coin as the total is 11 dirhams for the two ($3.00). As I am getting out the change the other guy behind the counter waves me off and tells the other to just give me 10 dirhams back. They want to give me a discount. So I have procured breakfast for Melissa and me for a total of $2.72 US. It is fresh and delicious and made with kindness. "Shokran" (Thank you) I say. "Masalama" as I walk out the door.

As I walk back to our flat I duck inside the small little everything shop to see if they have some onions for the soup we will make tonight. I find some decent ones and a nice melon of some sort. The total is 9 dirhams ($2.45). I wait in line. Some passing man (Pakistani?) says "Hello. How are you madam?" as another man grabs my vegetables to weigh them. He comes back and says the cost. I hand him my money and he gives me my change. I do not have to wait in line with the others. They are doing some kind of other business at the counter that has to do with receipts and forms and something complicated that my limited Arabic can't understand.

On the homestretch, I walk back along the row of buildings leading to my flat. The carpenter is busy in his tiny shop, sawing away at a board. I look in and see that he is barefoot in his carpentry shop. He also has no safety goggles on. The dress shop has the usual five or six men crammed into the tiny air-conditioned space. The laundry shop is full of steam as they press the sheets and shirts that are dropped off. The three cell phone shops are open for business (seems every block has multitudes of cell phone shops). The waterpipe store is buzzing with the tobacco sales. I arrive and the Chinese doorman says "welcome Ma'am sir". On the 13th floor the smell of fish curry (at 9 AM) comes from a neighbor's flat. I am home. Ready to start the weekend day.

There:
Homemade latte in my commuter mug in hand, Satchmo on leash, I head out my door. I imagine I am assaulted by a chill in the air as I leave my heated house, reminding me it is fall. I go out my gate and down the hill. My neighbor Ron is out washing his car and greets me. The air smells like wood burning stoves and rotting leaves. Satchmo tries to lunge after birds and rabbits as we head out along the road, devoid of cars and traffic this time on a weekend morning. I walk past the treed protected area, but disgusted with the piles of fast food wrappers, empty beer cans and plastic bottles that people have tossed out the window of their moving cars. I tell myself I should come back and pick up the garbage but I never do. I may cross paths with a few runners and bikers and others out walking dogs. Maybe a car or two will drive by. There are no shops within walking distance to buy breakfast. No assaults to my nose. No sounds of chatter. Just the sound of my iPod playing an episode of "This American Life" or "Radiolab" for my entertainment. As we near home Satchmo pulls me up the hill. I enter my cottage. I am home. Ready to start my weekend day.

What's that you say?

Understanding people who speak English as a second language can be challenging. Especially if their native tongue is something that is spoken fast, like Arabic. Or Chinese or Farsi or something. It is especially difficult to understand them on the phone. The other thing that compounds it is that there are about five male names that it seems like 80% of the male population shares. Omar. Abdullah. Hesham. Ahmed. Alli. There are spelling variations and some minor pronounciation variations. Like Akhmed, which is ahmed with a throat clearing gesture in the middle. I get a phone call from one of these guys and it is really, really difficult. Not only do I not know who it is but I can't figure out what they are saying and what the call is pertaining to. It takes a bit of conversation to put it together. They call on my cell phone number because the cell phone is the number that most people use since the land line is often answered by someone who is even harder to understand than the person you are calling. So we use cell phones, no voice mail and caller ID I haven't figured out.

When taking down a phone number or email address over the phone I often have to have them spell it using phoenetic spelling, such as "T as in Tango" in order to make sure I have it right. I have to do the same thing when leaving my email address since they seem to have trouble understanding me as well.

I was trying to get an Indian's contact email over the phone. He started spelling:

"S as in star"
"O as in Ostrich"
"B as in ballot"
"B as in ballot"
"I as in ice"
"L as in lamb"
"at somethingorother dot com"

So I sent the email to him. It came back undeliverable. I got to looking at something that had his name on it. Soppil. Apparently B as in Ballot means P as in Pallet? Why would he pick pallet for the P word? Especially if he can't pronounce P and Ballot is a word too?

It's always something. Be habby!

Wiped out...

If I weren't in my fifties and celebate for, well, too long, I'd swear I was in my first tri-mester. I am wiped out. The kind of tired that fights the urge to pass out every moment I am not in motion. I fell asleep in Arabic class last night. I fell asleep again right in the middle of looking at housing options in Dubai on the internet with Melissa. The only thing I crave as much as sleep is coffee. My mind can't even go in circles. The kind of tired that comes in the first tri-mester. Too tired to blog. Sorry for the kind of post that will put you to sleep. But while you are at it, please log a few zzzzs for me!

On my mind...

• See that writing up there? I am learning Arabic. Melissa and I host a weekly Meet Up group in our office where Sam teaches us beginner's Arabic. I can now greet you (for several times of the day), say good bye, ask where you are from and what your name is. I can also answer all those questions. And now I can write the letter "A". It's fun to learn. A bit of a stretch for this old brain. The locals are happy that we try at least a little.

• Not all flatmates are created equal. This "gift" was left in my garbage can last night. Let me explain. There are three of us in the company two bedroom apartment. I have a single bed in the living/dining room which I really don't mind. Last night one of my flatmates asked if we were going to be home in the evening because her friend's parent's were in town and wanted to fix her dinner in HER flat. OK, we made plans to be scarce so she could have dinner in our place. We went out. No big deal. We do that a lot anyway. But we were tired so didn't stay out real late. Got home. The family was there. Flatmate makes no introductions. We dissapear into M's bedroom. A few minutes later the door closes. We wait and hear no sounds so venture out. We find the kitchen a horrendous mess. Every dish dirty. Nothing washed. The aforementioned flat mate has an attitude that we have a maid and she can deal with any mess we leave for her. M and I always try to take care of our messes at least a bit. Anyway, this morning I wake to an awful smell in my bedroom. The above is what I find in my garbage can. Thanks so much! Sometimes I feel I am back in college. And not in a good way.

(Post script: the maids did the dishes. The stack is up to the ceiling(!) And unfortunately there are fish scales on about half of them so we get to rewash. Oh happy day!)

• I had a date this week. With a young handsome foreigner. "Cougar material" M described him. We had a delicious dinner at a seafood restaurant where we sat side by side looking at the water. There was a particularly funny moment when I mentioned that my father was a professor and I asked him if he knew what "entemologist" was. When I explained he "studies insects" the guy chocked on his water. He asked "what is it exactly about sex does your father study." Studies insects...studies in sex...I guess they sound similar. We had a nice drink in Trader Vic's afterwards where we watched good salsa dancers and hookers at the bar looking for business. Then by cab he dropped me off home. It was romantic, safe and a nice way to spend the evening. Go Cougs!

• I spent three days at a Middle East Parking Symposium. I am by nature an introvert and so these kinds of things are not typically easy for me. Add in the factor that I am one of maybe four women at the show and the other women are all positioned with co-workers who are men and easing them into the crowd. Many of the men are Middle-eastern and not approachable. I did meet a few (see above note on being a Cougar), walked away with a new project, made some important contacts. But it was otherwise a difficult, uncomforatable three days. I miss working at home where people are generally much more approachable.

• There's been a transition inside me. I have moved from "newbie" to host. Acceptance is the best word to describe it. I am no longer a fragile newcomer filled with anxiety and grieving for what I left behind. I am just filled with anxiety. And grieving for what I left behind. But busy with the business of trying to make sure others are supported and dealing with their own fragility and shock from their arrival. Being put in that position forced me to move along. I'm more resigned and committed to make this the best I can within the limitations that I have. It's a process. I am proceding.

"Good morning, Sir"....

.... the doorman rushes to get his greeting out as I run outside to try to catch a cab. I wonder when I will no longer think it is funny that I am often addressed in pigeon English as "Sir." I hope never. Those funny things keep me going. Those of the working class that know a little more English usually address me as "Madams" (Plural, but right gender). I always look around to see if they are addresing me? OK. I am in my fifties. But I do not feel I am a "Madam." Yet.

The doorman is Chinese. He looks like Mau T'se Tung in green work uniform. He is Chinese, working for an Egyptian boss, with a Filipino crew, in an Arabic speaking country, serving British, German, French, American, African (Maybe Nigerian?), Indian and Pakistani Tenants. I am honored that he greets me with "Good morning" even if I am called "Sir."

Less than 20% of the population in the UAE are indigenous: the Emeratti. They are the heirs to the oil based wealth of this country. The men dress in the long white "dish dash" with white head covering fastened on with a black ring with long cords running down their backs. When they are at a desk or sometimes out with friends they tuck the long folds from their head covering back. A modified "flying Nun" look. At the front, where a tie might be they sport a three or four inch length of intricately woven white cloth that is the same color of the dish dash. I was told that this is how you can tell they are Emeratti as lots of other men from other countries dress similarly, but without the tale tale woven piece.

The working class are often here to make money to send back to their home countries. Our maid, for example, is from the Philipines. She is here on a contract. She gets one short visit home after two years. She left a young daughter at home in the care of relatives. Her eyes tear up when we ask her. So we don't ask her often. She is always so cheery and positive. She works extra jobs on her hours off. I have seen others be very dismissive to her as well as other maids and taxi drivers. That so rubs me the wrong way. But then again, sometimes I find myself so frustrated trying to communicate something that I think is simple. That should be obvious (in my humble opinion). And they don't get it and they don't get it (though all the time nodding "yes") that I end up getting short as well. I am not my best self at those moments.

I often try to talk to the cab drivers to find out a little bit about where they are from. This isn't always possible as some have extremely limited English. Then I just smile and ride in silence. But most try. Most seem really surprised when you ask where they are from. I think not too many passengers care. They just yell with impatience. Sometimes they will ask me if I am here for big money contract (as they rub their fingers together with one hand). Or they assume I am a teacher. There are many western women here teaching. Cab rides are very cheap and most locals or people who have been here a long time give them a 1 dirham tip for each ride. A dirham is worth about $0.30 US. They are always so grateful when I round up the tip and say keep the change. That's maybe a dollar tip or so. I fantasize about handing them a 20 or even 100 dirham tip just to make their day. I probably will do that this Christmas season (and even say "Merry Christmas" even though they don't celebrate it, just because that is why I would be doing it).

Melissa and I took a very late cab ride accross town to the hotel this weekend in Dubai. We had been out celebrating a birthday. But the celebration didn't include food and with a few too many drinks in us we determined we had better put something thick and greasy in our stomachs. So we asked the cab driver to get us to a McDonalds on the way back. he sighed heavily and seemed irritated that we needed this stop. When we were a block away I asked him if he preferred hamburger or chicken sandwich. I think he thought I was teasing. I asked what drink he preffered. "Coke" he said, very softly. I said "please wait" as we got out of the cab. When we came out five minutes later with his dinner he was speachless. Actually he was speachless before (just heavy sighing) but his mood seemed better knowing he had a meal to eat. That was a feel good moment.

Life is pretty hard here for the workers. The construction workers are the ones my heart goes out to most. The temperatures are so very, very hot. Work conditions do not look safe at all (you should see the scaffolding they are climbing around on: scary). They are bused on these old gray busses that surely don't have air conditioning between the job and the labor camp where they "live". Life just cannot be very good for them. I think they are probably committed for a long time on their contracts. So sad to think about them living so far from home working such difficult jobs, living in the labor camps. Probably no, or very little, education, and so very difficult to imagine doing anything else.

I complain about the work conditions here. I admit it. It's just so very difficult. Everything. And pretty thankless. It will be a very long haul. But just an awareness of what some of these others are dealing with puts it in a good perspective.

From Sir, with love....

-J

Things I Just Can't Seem to Get Straight...

I have been in UAE for 2 months 19 days and four hours. But who's counting? As I noted in the beginning, learning to live here was exhausting. Everything (and I do mean everything from using the bathroom to dialing a phone to paying for groceries to knowing what to wear to everything else in the daily life) I had to figure out. Now I have been here long enough that most things I know well enough to teach other new arrivals. But there are a few things that I just can't seem to reprogram my brain for. These include:

• How to dial the phone. There is a different procedure to use for dialing a mobile number or a cell number from a mobile number or a cell number. The numbers on people's business cards are not necessarily exactly how you would dial the number. If they have the country code in the number you have to drop it. You might have to add a zero to it, or you might have to drop some numbers depending on what kind of phone you are calling from. Melissa is pretty sharp. She is in her twenties. I think that helps! She has tried to simplify it for me. I hid my request disguised as an attempt to put things down in writing to help other new arrivals. She found the simplest way to put it. Reduced my half page write up to four simple lines. I still need to look up those four simple lines whenever I dial. This is just too new a trick for this old dog. And you know what they say about teaching new tricks to old dogs. That dog won't hunt...

• I don't seem to be able to reprogram my brain for a Sunday through Thursday work week. When Thursday arrives I say "Thank God it's Friday." When I am organizing plans for the weekend, I always tell people "Saturday" when I mean Friday. Same problem with Sunday.

I put out a meeting agenda this week. The meeting was on Monday. My mind processes this as "OK. I have one day to prepare after the weekend. So I put together the meeting agenda and send it to verybody with the heading "Agenda for Tuesday's Meeting." I have the wrong day on the agenda as well. Result: I have confused everybody and it takes a bunch of emails and corrections to straighten it out.

Additionally, with the 11 hour offset from the timezone at home I am always confused on what time I've set up for Skype calls, etc. Fortunately Outlook, our electronic mail/calendar program for work, automatically adjusts time when an appointment is set by someone in another time zone. Unfortunately my brain does not do the same.

• Metric System. How many of you were told in the second grade that you needed to learn the metric system because by the time you were in JR. High this would be the US standard? Didn't happen, did it? In second grade they brought out a felt bag with little wooden cubes. Purple and red and green and blue ones. We grouped them into rows of ten and then ten rows of ten. And talked about centimeters and decimeters. I remember it as great fun. How pretty those cubes were. The tactile experience of moving those around. I loved the metric system. Loved as in past tense. Now not so much. We never moved to the metric system and now that my brain is past the formative years I just can't seem to adjust to thinking about the metric system.

Or to calling the letter Z "zed". Which they do here too. Though there are other British terms that I will come home using I'm sure. Like football for soccer. Perhaps I will pick up a limey accent as well. There are lots of Brits and Aussies around, including in the office. And many non-English speaking nationalities learned their English from the Brits so they speak with that accent as well. I digress. Circling back...the metric system trips me up. This also affects my ability to complain eloquently to you all about how hot it is here. "It's up to fifty-degrees" just doesn't get that much empathy. But saying it's 120 does. But I never know when it's 120 because all the signs and all around are discussing the fifty thing. All I can tell you is it's damn hot. Oh, but now cooling down to 48! Hope is on the way.

• The money thing. The conversion rate is somewhere around 3.6. Which means things aren't nearly expensive as they initially appear to be. Like a hotel room for $400. Only it's really $108 US. So I get in this pattern of reading a price. Gasping at the price, remembering I get to divide it by 3.6 and the result is so much nicer. Problem is some things are still expensive. But I have already talked myself into relief that it's not 3.6 times as expensive and have my money down before I consider if it really is a good deal. The money thing requires too much thinking. Fortunately I do have a good app on my iPhone for money AND metric conversion. But I wish my mind could just do it, you know?

And so it goes. Two months. Twenty days. And now...five hours. Stay tuned.

Diarrhea of a Wimpy Kid

UAE is hard on my stomach. That's all you need to know. Thanks to a very supportive friend (THANK YOU) I am stocked up on Imodium which seems to do the trick.

Don't worry. This is not a post about my stomach issues. Not so much. But being as I am once again knocked out by this I was remembering something funny that happened on my flight over. This was the flight that I ended up sharing blankets with the young man seated next to me. We talked. We laughed. We ended up falling asleep on each other's shoulders. I ended up tickling his feet. It was one of my best plane encounters. Before you get too excited for me, I'll let you know that Liam was four years old.

Liam was restless. His mother, who was seated on the other side of him was helping him choose which movie to watch. Among other choices was the movie "Diary of a Wimpy Kid." Only all Liam heard was "Diarrhea" and something about a kid. He said "that sounds gross." His mother tried to explain what a diary was. He wasn't buying it. And throughout the rest of the flight I could hear him singing from time to time "Diarrhea fa Wimpy Kid. Diarrhea, diarrhea, diarrhea fa wimpy kid."

I think the author of the book on which the film was based was very clever. No kid can resist saying diarrhea. He must have known if made into a movie, the name would be sung over and over and over by four year olds and such.

I am currently working on my own memoir about my time in UAE. It will have that word in the title. And I will have come by it honestly.

Enough said.

The Walk

This is why we like Dubai. A weekend day can be spent jumping waves in the ocean and sitting on the beach and watching the families and friends out enjoying themselves. Mostly large groups of young men (looking to be from Pakistan or India or Egypt) playing chicken on shoulders, dousing each other, wrestling in the waves, posing for pictures. And families with little ones getting dunked in the waves. Kids mostly in water with their fathers as the mothers sit fully covered on chairs on the beach. And a fair amount of westerners in speedos and bikinis mixing up with the more conservative clothing of the locals. Everyone seems to get along.

Near the beach is the JBR (stands for Jumeirah Beach Residents) walk, affectionately known as "the Walk." Here, a nicely cobbled street runs between the beach parking and the street level restaurants, above which are hotels and residences many stories high. Ferrari's, reving their loud engines, mix with the taxis and other cars "cruising" the strip in the single lane of traffic (one-way). In the evening families stroll along the Walk, laughter comes from the patio tables (just like at home but no alcohol served). Other difference: lots of smoking of cigarettes going on. They haven't yet banned that in public places and this seems to be a big vice of many of the locals and expats. There are also very large airconditionaers humming away trying to cool down these outdoor spots. It's a losing battle.

There are many wonderful cafes: Italian, British, Japanese, Asian Fusion, Chinese, Lebanese, American diner and burger fare. And some very high end design retail shops. The Walk runs about six to eight blocks in length. One can almost feel at home, in downtown Kirkland, or San Diego, hanging here.

At night, after dinner there are bars to hang out in. Because they are related to the hotels, they serve alcohol and there many expats hang out to try to forget where they are for a bit. It's loud. And smoky of course. Men out number the women significantly but there are many blond women hanging out that attract the attention. Even a soul like me gets hit on some. Takes a little getting used to: I'm out of practice. A few strong Pina Coladas help ; )

Promised Picture

As promissed, here's a picture of the place. I think this fellow is saving his place in line.

Mucking Out

The pity party isn't over, but the light has come back on. Just naming it, talking about it, doing a little research on the phenomena has helped. As someone very wise and dear to me pointed out: I have to consciously seek life-giving input into my days. I think that means more than a strong gin and tonic and handful of crispy chocolates. Though in a pinch that's been more life-giving than nothing at all. Maybe adding some worship music on the i=pod as I climb those stairs. Maybe getting off my arse and climbing those stairs again.

I really hadn't realized, until it was gently pointed out to me, how truly different this territory is than the one I left behind. There are some really awesome people along on this journey with me. A few close at hand who are new close friends. And others that are on the journey with me though not touchable close. That doesn't discount the fact that there is not a single thing in my daily routine that is the same as it was before. (OK, and I am just going to drop a little tear right here as I typed that sentence and felt the empty spot that Satchmo, my super dog, used to fill). I had my share of pity parties in my former life as well. (Note to self: glorifying one's past location is another typical symptom of culture shock). I am going to try to find the humor in what I see and experience here. And folks, if one were to look, one could see irony all around. Take for example the road sign we encountered on our way to Al Ain a while back (above). Beware surprises.

Here's something else to think about: at home I had probably a dozen or so good friends that I could call up and plan to do something with. Or even just hang out with doing nothing in particular. Here I have...well, you can count them on one hand and still have a finger left to scoop out a nice blob of Nutella and plop it in the mouth. The others I am with by circumstance: we are dependent on each other and so we try to get along but I am sure the feeling is neutral: that we wouldn't likely be hanging together if we had our base support group closer at hand.

Across the street at Lulu's Hypermarket (our really big mall grocery store) I ordered from the grill counter. I got four shish kabob sticks of ground lamb, six small grilled pita breads, a small tub of hummus, a "salad" (which turned out to be a small clump of parsley. That's it. Just parsley) and a scoop of French fries (which I did not eat). The whole meal, which actually provided me with two meals, could have been three if I had fried up the potatoes for breakfast, cost me 15 dirham. That's less than US$5. There is no sales tax here. I also bought a bag full of broccoli that cost me 18 dirham. Go figure. Very strange to figure out the pricing of everything. Obviously, the local laborers (like the guys running the grill) don't get paid much. And the broccoli came from somewhere further away than the lamb.

We finally got bottled water service to our flat. We bought a cooler well over a week ago. It took me over a week to coordinate with the water company to get someone over to deliver it. Hope when we need a refill it will happen more quickly. Instead of having to buy 5 liter bottles at about 3 dirham a bottle we now get 5 gallon bottles for 7.5 dirham. Plus it's oh so cold and handy and frees up space in our fridge. Oh the little joys. I will however miss my daily calling to the water company and taking my frustrations out on them. I believe, however, they will not miss those calls. I tried not to shoot the messenger. Really I did. But I think I may have wounded a few egos in the process.


There is a shop a few blocks up. It is called the "Butt Sweet Shop." I will take pictures to prove it. What do you think happens in that shop? I hope they sell T-shirts. Maybe that is where I need to go to buy an attitude adjustment.

Transition Shock

So, having a little bit of trouble accepting my decision to come here. Living life much of the time feeling like I've had the rug pulled out from under me and I just can't seem to find my feet. Kicking myself because I am the one that pulled the rug out from under my very own feet. Who does that? What was I running away from?

My normal support system is so unreachable at times (and a special shout out to Julie and Kelley and Anne and Judy who have gone out of their way to let me know you are still there. Thank you! Without your precious contact I really would be completely lost).

In my effort to fight the desire to crawl into a closet and drink myself to death I am trying to help myself by figuring out what is happening to my psyche. Good old Google (though it is probably obvious to those of you looking on from the outside) has identified this as a process which I must go through. Definition: Culture Shock. Since I have never shied away from experiencing different cultures, embrace our differences, somehow I just thought I'd be imune to that. mmm nhmm. No such luck.

Wikipedia is a good place to start. Though depending on what you chase, there are from four to ten stages of adjustment in moving overseas and experiencing culture shock. There are also as many different time frames to expect to move through these stages, and, like all life processees, it is not a linear process. I get to make progress and digress...step forward...fall back.

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My gem for today, from Wiki

Transition shock
Culture shock is a subcategory of a more universal construct called transition shock. Transition shock is a state of loss and disorientation predicated by a change in one's familiar environment which requires adjustment. There are many symptoms of transition shock, some which include:

excessive concern over cleanliness and health
feelings of helplessness and withdrawal
irritability
glazed stare
desire for home and old friends
physiological stress reactions
homesickness
boredom
withdrawal
getting "stuck" on one thing
excessive sleep
compulsive eating/drinking/weight gain
stereotyping host nationals
hostility towards host nationals
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Note: I score myself with varying degrees of all 14. The "one thing" I am finding myself stuck on is a feeling of abandonment by so many of my good friends back home. There. I said it. And as I mentioned above, there are those of you who are giving such good support that you are the reason I remain tethered. You are also the only ones I think that are even bothering to read my blog. This is also a familiar symptom of depression (and self pity). Life goes on for everybody else. They are not stuck in this world of the unfamiliar as I am. I try to quiet those voices in my head that say "I guess (fill in the blank) has forgotten entirely about me." "I must be easily replacable as (fill in the blank) seems to have already filled in the spot in their life I used to fill with something else." A symptom of the homesickness is thinking constantly about the people I left behind so I am thinking and missing all the time. Life goes on for those who didn't change it up. It's my bad...not theirs.

Heard In the Car the Other Night...

"I don't want to drink too much tonight. Seriously, can't imagine being hung over in Abu Dhabi. If I were to wake up in Abu Dhabi hung over I would have to kill myself." It's a rough place to live. The Muslim's may have it right about no alcohol in these conditions.

Ramadan is Over

We are in the middle of Eid al Fitr, the celebration of the end of Ramadan. On Monday the Government announced that Wednesday and Thursday would be holidays though Ramadan didn't end until Friday. It's and so we were looking at a four day weekend. Which normally I'd be all over. Except to anticipate four days in Abu Dhabi without work, without anything planned would have been dificult to handle. So Melissa and I went to Dubai for a night. Spent most of Thursday at a water park. We Entertaining but nothing like the water park at Atlantis. Checked into the Rotana at Jumaira Beach. Felt human again. After checking in we walked to the beach accross the road and played in the waves until the sun went down. The ocean was like bathwater. The setting sun a most brilliant orange. People were happy, relaxed, free. The vitamin D very invigorating. After dinner at the hotel strolled along the beach shops. So wonderful to be in a place where we could do this. Good people watching, strolling activity. Next day hung out at the pool, mojitos at the poolside bar, checked out and played in the ocean again. Dinner at one of the beach stroll restaurants. Then drove back to Abu Dhabi. What a world of difference Dubai is from Abu Dhabi. One could imagine living there and commuting to Abu Dhabi. Something to consider come end of lease (December) here. There is hope...

Another First in Abu Dhabi: Haircut

Today I got my first haircut in Abu Dhabi. Something I was quite nervous about because I can count on one hand the number of short fair (blonde) haircuts I've seen since the two months I've been here. There may be some short hair under those abayas but I don't think many. Like most cultures, a woman's beauty is in her hair (that's why they cover it up) and men the world over find long hair most attractive. Unfortunately my hair is not good for a long cut (too fine textured) and my head/face too small. I would be burried in a big long fluffy mane. And so I wear it short. Which, as I noted, is just one more thing that makes me stand out as different in this place.

My hair was getting quite shaggy and in need of attention. I had waited until Rasha's hairdresser had returned from his annual leave. She said he was good and could cut short styles. So off we went today as he is finally returned. She dropped me off, introduced me to Nicolas, from Lebanon, and I was on my own. Fortunately I had on my i-phone the shot of a haircut on someone who was out and about back home before I came here. Someone had told me to take a good picture of my hair in a cut I like to take with me to help explain what I wanted. Well I didn't have a cut on me I liked, but I liked the cut on a girl walking by and so I asked her to pose. She graciously agreed. (what I would give to have the kind of haircut that strangers stop me on the street to photograph!).

Nicolas has long dark wavy hair and the body of a buff hairdresser. He was wearing a tight T-shirt and lots of bling. He even smelled nice. He had just returned from his honeymoon vacation so my crush is safe. He ran his hands through my hair and pushed it around as we talked about the cut. Then after a shampoo he was off and clipping. When he was done another gentleman stepped in and began the most thorough and beautiful blow dry I have ever had. He spent a long time plumping and curling with brushes and messing and moussing. When it was all said and done my hair was huge. By the time I walked to a cab stand and returned home it was half the size I started but still, a nice cut.

The cool thing is that I am consistently blond through now, with a few weekends in the sun and just enough Sun In to hold it, that I still had plenty of blond left after he did the cutting.

So, ta-dah: mission accomplished. Found a new hairdresser that can handle my hair. Whole cut and blow out was the equivalent of $54 US plus tip. Add in two $2 cab rides. Not bad. Not bad at all. I think I might survive this after all.

Cooking Class

Yesterday afternoon Melissa and I went to the home of our director to learn some Arabic cooking from his wife, May. She is Lebanese and has had us over for Iftar dinner a few times. I had expressed an interest in learning how to make some of these dishes and so this was our chance.

We made a baked layered dish with eggplant, seasoned ground meet and tomatoes. This served on top of rice with pasta. Also, spinach filled pastry, eggplant moutabelle (similar to babaganoosh), salad and wheat and garbanzo soup. This dinner was served for Iftar (the nightly breaking of the fast) which we enjoyed with our director's family and the newly arrived lab director.

After such a filling meal we walked the mile+ back to the flat in the warm, humid Abu Dhabi air. The temp had gotten up to 120-degrees earlier in the day. Humidity well over 80%.

The evening was a lovely way to end the weekend. Back to work, though this may be a short week as the end of Ramadan is approaching. There will be a holiday though the day when it starts is not yet determined: depends on the sighting of the moon.

Atlantis Dubai....what's missing?

Staying at the Atlantis was all one could dream of.....
Except, what was missing....

...was a good man to share it with.

Criminal Confession...or...Breaking the Rules

I am in a private bathroom stall at Emerites Mall in Dubai. Standing with my pants down around my ankles, hovering above the toilet, so as not to sit all the way down. This takes my leg strength as my hands are otherwise engaged. One is busy holding an open bag of salted peanuts. The other hand is shoveling the peanuts into my mouth. I wait patiently for other sounds coming from elsewhere in the ladies room (like flushing toilets, running tap water, towels being pulled from the dispenser). When these sounds shatter the silence I reach into the peanut bag, the cellophane bag shouting out crumpling noises, shove as many as I can into my mouth and chew quickly and violently until the background sound ends. Then I wait, hovering, until the next sounds allow me to continue in this criminal activity. I have to get my fill of peanuts before I finish and then can finish taking care of the other business which I am in the stall for. I am not multi-tasking for efficiency reasons. I am not a fan of eating in public restrooms, let alone in actual stalls while doing other business. But these are desperate times. I have not eaten since we left the hotel early morning. I have not had anything to drink either and I am hungry and thirsty.

I broke the law today and it wasn't pretty. I did it knowingly. And it sent me to new lows. During Ramadan it is illegal to eat or drink in public places between the sunrise and sunset calls to prayer. We are careful to follow those rules out of respect for the Muslim's whose territory we are in. It would be rude to take a sip of water or chomp on a morsel of food in front of those who are obstaining. Restaurants aren't open. Starbuck's isn't open. Samples are not given out at the date shops. A few places will deliver foods to private residences, but for the most part, there is not a bite of food or a sip of water to be had. Unless you are home. Or at a nice hotel with private separate dining places that can be closed off so the fasters can't see. So we follow the rules, out of respect. But also because we have heard that one can get arrested if they are seen doing these things in public.

The day before we had found a Starbucks that was dark, with black sheets draped over the windows. We poked our head inside and saw a person at the counter quietly ordering a drink. The finished drink was placed in a brown paper bag "to go" and the customer discreetly exited out of the store, brown bag carefully in hand. Seeing this action, we slipped into the store and ordered a drink "to go" as well. We then went to the car, drove to the middle of a completely vacant parking lot and carefully pulled the straws out of the top of the bag. We chugged our iced lattes from within the brown bag, all the while on alert for approaching cars, in which case we would have to ditch the caffein laced ambrosia. It reminded me of similar High School escapades with abandoned church parking lots and other types of drinks hidden in brown paper bags.

So now, back to my current position in the mall stall with a loud bag of peanuts and pants around my ankles. While all serving food establishments are closed until sundown, the grocery stores are not. People have to be able to procure the food they need for fixing the big feasts for the breaking of the fast, otherwise known as Iftar. You can't get any samples from the deli or date bar like you usually come. That would be publicly breaking the fast.

You know how when on a diet, once you have it in the plan that you cannot eat certain things, all you do is think about certain things? While I was at the mall, waiting for Garth to finish his skiing activity, I started thinking how hungry I was and how much I really needed just some small morsel to tie me over for a few more hours. It got so that while my eyes were cruising through the black and white letters on my Kindle, I was not registering a single word. I was instead pictureing food. I was seeing me eating food and drinking Starbucks. And then I got the brilliant idea that I could do a secret Starbucks visit to a store that was doing drinks for "take out" and that I could take such a drink into a bathroom stall with me and carefully gulp it down, taking care not to rattle ice or slurp at the end. It was risky, but I was up to the challenge. I thought about what I would do if hauled off to jail, like how to get a message to Garth why I wasn't at the meeting place. What stories I would tell. At the time I had forgotten that women who are having their periods are allowed to eat during the day. That would have been a simple lie that might have gotten me off the hook. But instead I went on a mission to do the Starbucks stall caper. Only I did not find a secretly open Starbucks. What I did find was the mall grocery. And it was calling my criminal psyche. I entered the store. I tried to look like I was there for something else. I thought about buying a box of Tampons and a candy bar. When I was underage in my teens I had an altered driver's license. Whenever I got up the nerve to try to buy alcohol I would include in the purchase a box of tampons. My friends and I reasoned that while we couldn't look completely confident in buying the beer, having the tampons would help explain any self consious mannerisms I might otherwise be displaying. In High School that worked. However, buying tampons in a Muslim country is about as comfortable as trying to buy Tucks in a foreign drugstore (see earlier post). Or so I'm told. Since I no longer have to do that. But what I did have to do now was buy a snack bag of peanuts in daylight during Ramadan. I finally got up the nerve and got into line. It feels like all eyes are on me: they know I am buying these for consumption. Are they talking to each other about it? "See that western lady. Thinking she can get away with eating those around here. I hope she gets busted. Where are the police when you need them?..." I do get the nuts without incident but then I must find a place to consume them. And so, with nuts secretly stashed into my purse, I take an indirect route to a ladies room and you know the rest. I break the fast and my own personal rules about eating in bathrooms. I eventually get the peanuts eaten, the empty wrapper zipped into the purse side pocket, myself wiped and the stall cleared. At the mirror I catch the eye of the bathroom attendant. She gives me an all knowing look (which in hindsight I am sure was all in my paranoid head) and I am now good for the remaining time until I meet up with Garth and can break the fast with everybody else just as soon as we hear the call to prayer broadcast over the loud speakers.

Oh one small problem. The nuts were salted. Bad planning.

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Today, between client meetings I dropped by our sub-office located in a municipality building. For this large project we are assembling a team of technical experts who will be stationed full time at the government building. I am not at all involved on this project but I do work with some of the directors on various management issues. So I thought I'd drop by to say hello and meet some of our new hires, me representing the face of firm ownership. After greeting our director I see two desks in an office accross the hall. This is in our part of the building and I recognize one person at one desk so I guess the second person is one of our new hires. In fact he sees me leaving our director's office and stands up behind his desk with a freindly posture, leaning forward as if he wants to meet me. Without thinking I approach him, hand out stretched "Welcome to TR****" I am saying. He points to his chest and says "sorry." I think he is telling me he doesn't speak English. I say "no that's OK" I point to my chest "Jennifer" I say. You? and I extend my hand. He says "no, no, no. I cannot. Nothing against you at all. I cannot shake your hand. We do not shake the hand of a lady." I keep the smile on my face as my self assessment takes a nose dive. I say "oh yes, I am sorry. I need to wait to see if a hand is extended to me first. I try to remember to do this and I am so sorry. I understand and totally respect your boundaries." He's apologetic. Asks how long I've been in the UAE. I tell him a month and I can see he forgives me.

He is newly hired into the company I have been with for probably at least half his lifetime. I am part owner of this firm, owning more shares than most of the other male owners, due mostly to my age and longevity with the firm and the fact that my company values what I bring and involves me in the management of our enterprises. Here is this brand new employee who will not shake my hand. His reasons are tied to his faith and his faith is ingrained in every nook and cranny of this country I live in. I am so very aware and respectful of where I am and whose country I am in. What part of the world I am in and how very far away it is from my beliefs and comfort. I am not here to change anything. I will not blatently disrespect or openly violate the rules. I am here to work and absorb as much as I can about the current culture while I am doing that work. It is often awkward. Most people are understanding though they are very clear on what is correct and what is not. I just hate that feeling of screwing up and having people think that I am disrespectful. I also don't like feeling second class or "untouchable" when I am simply doing my business and expressing my respect to someone else in the way I am used to, such as extending my hand. It was just a wake up call from a colleague and fortunately not from a client or official. But things like this, like the above stall incident amplifies how far away I am from home, how very strange a situation I am in, and how grateful I am that home is a place where I am not "untouchable" with even an offered handshake.

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For you good spellers, forgive me. I access my blogsite through a local portal. It is an Arabic portal. When I do my customary spellcheck before publishing almost everyword comes back yellow. Apparently using an Arabic dictionary for the spellcheck. I am too lazy to write in Word, spell check and then import it here. So you get the strange spelling sometimes. I hope you don't find it too distracting. I can't spell. But I can give a good handshake, for what it's worth.

Cheerio

ummm

Sorry. I've got a nice post started about the grande Mosque. But it deserves a really big post. It's a really big Mosque. And so much to share. So I'm stalled. But that will come. In the meantime work is going well. Too well. Have been very successful in bringing in new work. Now the fun begins. Delivery. A whole new challenge. Will need to coordinate extra help from the other side of the world. And beg, borrow and steal some extra help from here.

But...another diversion this weekend in store. Taking our visiting engineer to Dubai. We have a few fun things coming up. Skiing. In Dubai. Imagine. Sure hope they have a ski outfit large enough for me. My two mile hike in the heat and climb up the 15 floors of stairs tonight was my ski conditioning and maybe will help with the fitting the ski clothes thing. One can dream.

Then we have booked rooms at Atlantis. We need to hang at the water park. There are very special summer rates going on. It's still a splurge. But I am finding it easier to justify these special splurges because the rest of life is still a little difficult. Maybe a lot difficult. In very strange ways. I don't know how to describe it. Daily life seems a struggle from wake to sleep. If and when sleep comes.

While I am growing more comfortable with my surroundings and know enough to show a visiting co-worker around, I still feel pretty isolated much of the time. I guess walking away from the new life I'd been crafting for the last six years is more than I had bargained for. Dear friends seem unsurmountably far away. It takes a very big effort on both parts to keep connected.

But I refuse to go down easily. Which is why the splurges and planning things like skiing and Atlantis. If I can't have "normal" I might as well have extreme adventure. I have not yet found a middle ground.

What a strange long trip it is.

Cup 0' Gold

My long-term readers (a few out there?) know my love for cappucinos and latte art. My idea of a prime cultural experience is sipping a cappucino in a foreign setting.

I have a new one to add to the list. Meet "The Emerates Palace Cappucino."

That is gold leaf floating on top.


This is arriving at "the Palace."


My splurge (really, it was only 50 UAE (or about $14 US).


The Palace Hotel is almost empty at noon during Ramadan. All the shops are closed. Just the one cafe open. We took in the incredible Middle Eastern Embroidery exhibit at the hotel. It was a fabulous exhibit (no pictures allowed). Colorful, incredible art work from ceveral centuries, along with old photos and descriptions of nomadic and "urban" life from several countries. Oh the colors. I wish I could show you...

By the time we finished with "tea" the other exhibit on Saadayat Island (the new cultural island project) was closed. Things close here mid-day. Especially during Ramadan when fasting locals have no energy left until they can eat at sundown.


Their other specialty drink was a Camelcinno (that's right, a cappucino made with Camel's milk). We chose the gold laded one. We also ordered a fabulous plate of scones and jams. Hopefully pictues to come...

This is Garth, our visiting engineer from the home office. The challenge is to show him things during Ramadan. He opted for the cup o' gold as well.

It is really classy to have flecks of gold on your lips after sipping your special drink.


This is the buffet in the empty cafe.

These are the empty tables in the cafe.

For a while we were the only ones there. We had lots of attentive service! We pretended we were important.

This is a not so good picture of the dome in the entrance lobby of the hotel. I'm hoping to post better pictures from Garth's camera. My iPod ran out of juice.